Resurrection
by pgrabia
Summary: When House hits rock bottom, he realizes that something in his life must radically change. SPOILERS for S. 6 including S.6 Ep 22 "Help Me!" AU. H/W slash,House/OC,Wilson/OC. Warning: Controversial. Bad Language, violence suicide attempt , sexuality.
1. Chapter 1

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** Be certain to read both the Forward and the Prologue in "Chapter One" of this story. While this is not a songfic, occasionally I may include the lyrics of a song or other quotations if I feel they can add to the chapter or passage following it.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening. If you haven't seen the season finale, some parts of this prologue may not make sense to you, but in general you should be able to follow along.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Forward**

This story has grown out of my frustration with the development of the main characters since Season Four. House, like any human being (fictional, in this case), is subject to being changed by his environment and experiences just like everyone else, yet some among TPTB at House feel that he will never change, that he will always be miserable and will end up as he began at the beginning—all alone. This, in my opinion is the worst thing the writers could do. If House is the main character then he needs to be a round, dynamic character. To keep him in a state of misery, ever the same, he is in no way a dynamic character, nor is he realistic or even interesting. Quite frankly, I've found House becoming a boring man in spite of his issues because no matter what he faces he never really grows or changes. I've heard some people comment that he simply can't find any kind of happiness or else he's boring. That is ridiculous! What's boring is remaining eternally, predictably the same, not being happy!

When they began Season Six, I thought, "Yes! Finally we'll see House moving and changing, and in "Broken" and "Epic Fail" we saw that. It was so exciting! Then, for some reason, they reverted back to House and all of the main characters being forced back into their ruts, except for Cuddy. For Cuddy, they decided to dehumanize her and turn her into a total b***h which has done such a disservice to her character and to Lisa Edelstein who is being limited in what she can do with the character in terms of creativity, IMHO. The same is true for the character of Wilson. What we saw happen in Seasons Four and Five were incredible changes and growth for him but for Season Six we see him reverting backwards but not only that, losing his intelligence at the same time. Wilson is about as broken as House is, but that doesn't mean he can't learn from a few of his mistakes. That's what life is all about: the flow, the struggle, the overcoming and the growth. They have him in many ways reverting back to the Amber arc again, except with the Amber Arc he learned something—until TPTB gave him a sudden case of amnesia somewhere around "Lockdown".

Now, I am unapologetically a Hilson shipper, but I can be persuaded to think otherwise so long as the development of the relationship is organic, logical and realistic. If the Cuddy Arc looked anything like a logical and organic growth of the characters out of the ongoing plot, I would say great! Fine! However, it has not been. (Do I blame all of the writers for this? No. I believe the problem begins at the very top.) So when I write this I've decided to take a break from focusing heavily on romantic relationships and more on House himself. This is not to say that there will be no romance, and what there may be will be Hilson, but I don't want the focus to be there. I will be introducing a number of new OC's; I want this fic to be an exploration of House where he is allowed to be himself yet grow and change like any great character in fiction is allowed to do. It's going to be radical and quite frankly some of you are going to absolutely hate it, especially those of you who hate change. If you think you're one of those people and you can't be open-minded, then perhaps you should pass on this story. If you are so fanatically attached to one 'ship or another that it will bug the hell out of you if your particular preference isn't written to your satisfaction, don't read. If you hate the introduction of OCs into the House universe, don't read.

For the rest of you, we will be exploring this together and of course your reviews, comments, questions, opinions and ideas are always welcome! I love hearing other people's thoughts about House, even those that radically differ from my own. However, I do not want rudeness and flaming to myself or anyone else who comments on this fic! Everyone is entitled to their own opinions.

Feel free to P.M. me about your thoughts or if you want to discuss something in depth.

This, like life, is going to be a work in progress. Those of you forging ahead with me, I thank you! On with the fic!

**Prologue**

…_All that I fear is the realness I'm faking._

_Taking my time but it's time that I'm wasting._

_Always turn the car around._

_How many times can I break till I shatter?_

_Over the line, can't define what I'm after_

_I always turn the car around._

_Don't wanna turn the car around. _

_I gotta turn this thing around._

_--"Shattered" by O.A.R._

He was all alone. Sitting on the glass-strewn floor of his bathroom, huddled against the tub, Dr. Gregory House clenched his fist around two white tablets, debating whether he should just take them and end the pain that never ended; not only the pain in his battered leg, which screamed at him for abusing it the way he had, crawling under collapsed building to reach a woman whose leg had been pinned beneath a giant slab of concrete and steel but also the pain in his soul that was far more unbearable than any physical pain could ever be.

He had failed at everything of any real importance in life, and as a consequence he was all alone. He had hurt and disappointed his mother, made the wrong decision with his leg, in some way alienated the only real friend he had ever known, caused a woman whom he cared a great deal for years of aggravation and grief to the point where she had given up on him ever changing, ever being good enough…for anything. He even failed as a doctor, had known it the moment the spark of life had been extinguished in Hannah's beautiful eyes. She had died in spite of the fact that he done everything he could under the circumstances he had been handed. He had been powerless to stop it, to save her. She went through hours of fear and pain only to have to suffer the agony of an amputation and then still, after all of that, she had died.

At that moment House envied her more than anyone or anything else in his entire life. He couldn't what he could possibly have left that was worth living for. Everyone else had moved on with their lives…Stacy...Cuddy…Wilson…. That hurt the most of all. For nearly twenty years Wilson had been his best and only friend. He had been the warm shelter he could escape to when the blizzards that were his life blew. They had had their times of trouble and strife but in the end nothing had been able to destroy their friendship…until Sam Carr reappeared from hell into Wilson's life. One bitch had managed to do what the numerous others hadn't been able to: persuade Wilson to push him out of his life. House had been thrown out of the loft into the blizzard with nothing to protect him. Even Alvie had moved on and left him.

The others had real lives; House simply existed. He didn't want to even exist anymore. He didn't want to go on. He had toyed with his own mortality many times in the past, but if the truth be told, he had always been too afraid to go the distance and actually kill himself. He was a coward and a failure. Well, he refused to be a coward—or a failure—anymore. Still holding the Vicodin tablets in the one hand, his eyes looked at the shards of broken mirror on the floor. Finding one that he could actual wield sufficiently for the task, he picked it up and looked it over as the light refracted through it. Which method should be the one to end his miserable existence once and for all? Should he use the glass to slice open the veins in his arms and the carotid in his throat? He would bleed out very quickly and it would be a dramatic statement to whoever was unfortunate enough to discover him two, three days from now when he failed to show up at work or answer any phone calls or pages. It would be painful, but because of how quickly it would occur the pain would be over soon enough and there would be no way to reverse what he'd done fast enough to save him. The Vicodin would be painless; in fact, it would feel fucking good until he lost consciousness. However, if someone were to come and check on him too soon, his chance of surviving was high. He would find himself back in the asylum and he would truly lose everything if that happened.

He weighed the pros and cons of both and then made his decision.

Dr. James Wilson hurried to the door, ready to give whoever it was on the other side a piece of his mind for ringing the door bell incessantly and pounding at the same time. He had just got home from a torturous day of treating the injured brought to PPTH from the crane disaster in Trenton. The only thing he wanted to be doing was taking a shower and then curling up in bed with Sam and sleeping for the next week. He unlocked the door and swung it open, his mouth opening in preparation of yelling when he stopped short.

"Foreman?" the oncologist said in surprise. The neurologist was the last person he thought he would ever see at his door, much less at nine-thirty in the evening. "What are you doing here?"

The African-American doctor didn't wait for an invitation, striding past Wilson into the foyer of the oncologist's loft.

"Is House here?" Foreman demanded, looking extremely…worried? Anxious? Wilson couldn't be certain but that combined with the use of his friend's name worried him

"No, he doesn't live here anymore," Wilson replied, frowning in confusion.

"I know," the neurologist said quickly, frowning and wiping rain off of his face with his hand. "I've tried calling him both on his landline and his cell, as well as having the hospital page him, but he's not responding to anything. I went to his apartment to make certain that he was okay, but there was no answer to my knocking and the super wouldn't let me in--."

"Why were you checking on House?" the oncologist demanded, a knot the size of his fist forming in his stomach. "I thought he and Cuddy got back to Princeton fine."

"They did, but House rode in with a patient—that woman with the leg pinned?—but she died en route from a fat embolism from the amputation he ended up having to perform to free her."

"Oh my god," Wilson muttered, knowing full well how hard it would have been for the diagnostician to have to perform an amputation to save a life, but then to have that life snuffed out anyway due to a complication of the amputation…House would not have taken that at all well.

"When he got off the ambulance he headed straight for the exit," the neurologist told him. "I've never seen him like he was tonight in the six years odd years I've known him. He was practically in tears, completely distraught. He looked defeated. I thought I'd give him some time to work through the worst of it and then I'd check on him, but I can't locate him. His bike and car are at his apartment and since he wasn't answering there, I came here."

Without another word, Wilson ran to his bedroom to grab his shoes.

"Where are you going?" Sam asked him from where she lay in bed, reading. "Do they need you back at the hospital?"

"No," Wilson told her tersely. "It's House."

As the oncologist headed out of his bedroom and down the corridor, he heard her remark. "Okay, what has he gone and done now?" He ignored her words even though they angered him. He joined Foreman again, put the shoe and his jacket on and tore out of the apartment with Foreman having to jog to catch up.

"We'll go together in your car," Wilson told him as they raced down the stairs, not wasting time by waiting for the elevator. "I have a key to his place. Do you think he was capable of hurting himself tonight?"

"Absolutely," Foreman replied. "Would I be out in a rain storm after a day like today if I didn't? He's been showing up at work smelling of liquor and I suspect not completely sober, the increased pain in his leg that he's been denying and his obvious depression—I'll be surprised if we don't find him messed up somewhere, stoned or dead!"

The doctors ran from the condo building to Foreman's car parked on the street out front. Wilson sat shot gun as Foreman climbed in behind the wheel, fired the car up and raced away from the curb. He drove as quickly as he could without hydroplaning on the water covered streets or slamming into another vehicle. Where it was safe he blasted through red lights and broke several other traffic laws without attracting the cops or smashing the car. He had barely pulled up to the curb in front of House's apartment building when Wilson launched himself out of the car and up the steps to the main door. Foreman slammed the car into park and then raced after him, not even bothering to lock it with his key fob as he ran.

Wilson sprinted up the stairs two at a time to the second floor, forcing images of his friend overdosing on Vicodin from his head. He was fumbling with his key ring when Foreman caught up with him at House's door. The oncologist found the desired key and then unlocked the door, throwing it open.

The lights were out in the apartment except from a dim glow coming from down the corridor leading to the bathroom and House's bedroom.

"House?" Wilson shouted as he and Foreman ran into the apartment. "House, where the hell are you?"

"Bathroom," Foreman declared, pointing down the corridor. Wilson launched himself towards it. He didn't bother to knock; if House was indecent it wouldn't be the first time his best friend had seen him that way. He opened the door and then cursed and entered the room. Foreman was right behind him.

The middle-aged diagnostician, still covered in the grime from the accident site, lay in a pool of his own blood on the floor. A large shard of broken mirror glass was still in his motionless hand.

"Call for an ambulance!" Wilson shouted as he checked for a heartbeat and respiration; he grabbed for towels to use to staunch the blood flow from both of the diagnostician's arms. A small rivulet of blood flowed from where House had tried unsuccessfully to cut his own throat. Thankfully he had to have passed out before he could sever his right Carotid artery.

Foreman was already on his cell phone to the emergency dispatcher.

"Call the hospital, too, and let them know we're bringing him in to Emerge!" Wilson shouted over his shoulder as he tied the towels around the cut-up arms the best he could. His eye caught the upset amber pill bottle on the floor next to House. Tablets of Vicodin spilled out from it to the floor. Wilson then saw the tablets near House's other hand where they had fallen from his grasp. Had he taken the Vicodin, too? Did he try to make certain that his suicide attempt succeeded by taking an overdose _and_ cutting his veins open?

_Oh God, House_! Wilson thought desperately. _Why didn't you call me for help_?

Because you wouldn't have believed him, his conscience told him. You would have listened to Sam when she told you that it was just another one of his ploys to interfere with your relationship with her. You would have hung up, assuaged your guilt with a round of sex and gone to sleep without another thought about it.

"Tell them that he may have taken an OD of Vicodin as well," the oncologist said to Foreman, his voice breaking as he fought to remain in control. He had seen bloodied and broken bodies all day but had left the hospital glad that none of them had been people that he knew. He now crouched next to the body of his best friend who had inflicted lethal injury upon himself. He felt like he wanted to throw up.

"The ambulance is on its way," Foreman told him, stepping into the room. "They estimate their arrival in five minutes. The ER knows we're on our way in with him; they're going to page Cuddy to let her know." He shook his head sadly, no evidence of his rivalry with and dislike for House anywhere on his person.

"I've got it under control here," Wilson told him. "Why don't you go greet them and bring them up when they arrive?"

"Right," the neurologist said with a nod and then left the bathroom.

Once alone with House Wilson knelt and lifted his best friend's head onto his legs and gently caressed his cheek, tears stinging his eyes. "Why?" he whispered shaking his head in dismay. "I'm sorry I didn't see the signs. I should never have told you to move out. I thought you were better! You've got to _hold on_. Don't you _dare_ go and leave me! I don't know what I will do if you die!"


	2. Chapter 2 Part 1 Ch 1

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** This story will have three parts. Each Part will be chaptered. While this is not a songfic, occasionally I may include the lyrics of a song or other quotations if I feel they can add to the chapter or passage following it. Also, I am once again having troubles editing and saving on this archaic word processing program on this site so watch carefully because for some reason it wont save breaks between scenes. Sorry for the inconvenience.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part One: The Dying Time**

**Chapter One: Tuesday, May 18, 2010**

He had screwed up…again.

House knew it the moment he heard the steady beeping of the heart monitor somewhere over his head. He knew it when he took his first conscious breath since collapsing in his own blood on his bathroom floor. He knew it when he opened his eyes ever so slightly and saw Wilson sitting in a recliner next to his bed, reading one of his touchy-feely self-help books he couldn't seem to resist. He felt the heavy dressings on his sliced-up arms.

In an instant all of the emotional pain he had felt the night before—and for months, really—came back, hitting him like a giant wave, knocking him off of any sense of balance or control he thought he had. However, now there was the added disappointment and humiliation of having failed; he was a doctor and he couldn't even successfully kill himself. The pain in his leg, though intense, was nothing compared to that in his heart. He should have taken the Vicodin—if nothing else, it would have dulled his emotions and make it so that he floated in the peace of indifference.

Tears escaped his closed eyelids, betraying him. He felt Wilson's hand come to rest on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

"House?" he said softly. "Are you awake?"

The diagnostician refused to acknowledge the question or Wilson's presence there. Where was he last night, after possibly the worst day of his life? Or for the last month, for that matter? With Sam, that's where-with the foul harpy that had destroyed the most important relationship he had ever had, twenty years of friendship. Dr. Samantha Carr had bewitched his best friend and once again, as he always did, Wilson had turned his back on him. House was the old sweater that was boxed up and shoved into the back of the closet when a new one was bought. Once the new one faded, shrunk and fell apart at the seams, House would be pulled out of the darkness, dusted off, and be worn again until the next shopping trip.

Well, the diagnostician was feeling moldy and moth-eaten and ready for the dumpster. He tried to pull away from his touch only to find that his hands and feet had been bound 'for his own good'. The panic he experienced any time he felt closed in or trapped began to show itself as a fluttering in his gut.

"House," he heard the Chief of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital say, "I know that you can hear me. Please open your eyes and look at me."

_No_, House thought as more tears ran sideways down his face and towards his temples. _I don't want to see you ever again. I don't want to see anything ever again._

Wilson didn't relent. "Well, I know you can hear me. It's going to be alright. There's help."

_I don't want everything to be alright! There is no help. Just let me die_.

House flinched when he felt something soft touch his face. It was a facial tissue; Wilson was wiping the tears from his face. He sighed silently. There was no point in the pretence. He opened his eyes but refused to look directly at the younger man.

"Look at me, House."

The older man didn't comply. In fact he didn't move in the slightest. His cerulean blue eyes remained fixed on a spot on a ceiling tile. He heard the younger man sigh. He wondered who had found him. He wanted to believe that Wilson had come by to see how he was after the harrowing day he'd had, or to watch a movie, drink beer and eat pizza like they used to before…. He doubted it though. He didn't think Sam would let him off of his leash long enough. So who would have come by? Cuddy? No, the Dean of Medicine would have gone home to crash and spend the evening with Lucas, her _fiancé_, and her little parasite Rachel. She had made it very clear exactly how much she gave a damn about him.

_It doesn't matter_, he told himself. He was fucking alive and that was the awful part.

"I wish I understood why you did this," Wilson told him wearily.

_I wish you did too_.

"I know that you weren't pleased about having to move out so that Sam could move in," the younger man said, "but I thought you were adjusting well. You had that friend from Mayfield visiting, you were working…I didn't see the signs."

_That happens when your focus is fixated up your ass_, House thought bitterly, _or on Sam's tits_, _what there is of them. I've seen better tits on the belly of a sow._

"I didn't know there was something wrong with you until Foreman came over to the loft last night, worried about you," the oncologist admitted.

_Foreman_?

"He came to get me when he couldn't get in to your apartment."

House closed his eyes again, his irritation building. Here was the man he had thought was his best friend, the man that he loved, admitting that he was clueless until another man who never claimed to give a damn about him came to get help from him. He told himself that he would have to make certain that he got his apartment key back from his former roommate.

"You bled out half of your total blood volume," the oncologist went on. "You didn't have a blood pressure when you arrived at the ER and your heart rate barely registered. You scared me to death—Sam too, when I called her to let her know what had happened."

House rolled his eyes in derision, unable to restrain himself. _I'm certain that she's just devastated, _he retorted silently. _That I'm still alive, that is._

"What I don't understand is why you didn't call me for help," Wilson admitted, sounding frustrated. "Was this your way of trying to punish me for asking you to move out? Were you trying to make me feel guilty for loving Sam and wanting her to be with me?"

House had had enough. Still not looking at the younger man, House said quietly, "Fuck off."

"Well, that's nice," Wilson reacted bitterly. "I'm still covered in your blood after being convinced that I had lost you for good and you tell me to fuck off."

"I didn't want your fucking help," the diagnostician replied. "I didn't want anybody's fucking help."

Wilson was quiet a moment and when he did speak, his voice sounded choked, like he was on the verge of crying and was desperately trying to hold it back. "I know. I know. But you're going to get it, anyway. It's not up to you anymore."

That statement caused House to look sharply at the oncologist. The dark circles under his red rimmed, puffy brown eyes tugged at the older man's heart in spite of his anger and hurt. He forced himself to ignore that by focusing on his feelings of being betrayed and rejected instead.

"What do you mean by that?" he demanded.

"I'm your medical proxy," Wilson told him, sounding like he was experiencing great regret. "Suicide is considered an irrational act and so the Baker Act applies. You're obviously incapable right now to make decisions concerning your health and well-being. I'm…having you committed for treatment."

"No," House responded warningly. "You're not!"

"Yes," Wilson said softly, meeting his gaze, "I am. I can't risk having you leave the hospital, go back to your apartment and try to kill yourself again. I couldn't live with that kind of guilt."

"Well," House said cynically, raising his voice—or at least trying. "Stop the fucking world then! We can't have you feeling guilty for being an asshole, now can we? I'm not your fucking _dog_, Wilson! You can't just take me to a kennel, lock me in and throw away the key!"

"No, you're not my dog, House," Wilson agreed sadly. "You're my best friend and no matter what you may think right now, I care about you too much to see you destroy yourself and drag me with you. You're _sick_, can't you see that? No, I guess you can't but I do, Cuddy does, so does Foreman! When I notified your psychiatrist he saw it, too."

"You called _Nolan_!" House shouted, referring to the psychiatrist he'd been seeing since his stint in Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital until just a week ago. The strength he needed to argue came from adrenalin alone. "He's not my shrink anymore! I fired him!"

"I know," the younger man acknowledged, nodding. "He told me. He's been very concerned, suspecting that something like this was going to happen. He figured you'd either relapse and start taking narcotics again or you'd try to harm yourself. He's still your psychiatrist of record."

"What the fuck do you care what happens to me?" House shouted, tears forming in his eyes and his body trembling uncontrollably. The fear of powerlessness and confinement was bringing him quickly to his breaking point. "You gave up your right to care when you replaced me by yet another pussy!"

Wilson flinched at that comment and he set his jaw. House saw the pain in his eyes but didn't care anymore. "I didn't replace you, House!" the oncologist insisted, struggling not to yell and thus begin a shouting match. "She's my lover; you're my best friend! She fills in a part of my life that you don't! Why do you resent that so much?"

The heart monitor displayed the diagnostician's rapidly increasing heart rate and respiration.

"Because _**I**_ want to be-!" House yelled before he realized what he was actually about to say and stopped himself mid-sentence. He was panting, feeling very dizzy and nauseated. He couldn't believe that he'd almost admitted out loud what he truly felt for the other man. He'd sworn that he would never admit it to anyone, especially not to the object of his obsession. He turned his face away and clamped his eyes and mouth shut, hoping that Wilson wouldn't piece things together. He wished more than anything that the earth would open up and swallow him alive.

Wilson was so silent for such a long time that the older man wondered if he hadn't slipped out of the room without being noticed. What he didn't see was the look of sudden understanding dawning on Wilson's face and in his dark chocolate brown eyes.

"House?" Wilson said at last, quietly, almost timidly.

"Don't," House practically begged. He couldn't go there, he just couldn't. The pain and humiliation would be too great.

Of course the younger man wouldn't let it go. "Are you…do you…?" He couldn't form the words, it seemed. He sighed and began again. "Are you…are you in…love…with me?"

House's heart wanted to scream out yes, wanted to grab him and kiss him and tell him how heartbroken he has been over being rejected over and over again. He couldn't. He couldn't allow himself to be that vulnerable to him, to risk being mocked or despised or rejected. It didn't matter anymore any way. He was as good as dead. They couldn't keep him tied up, cooped up and under constant watch forever. He was broken beyond any repair. It was only a matter of time before he got another chance and next time he wouldn't fail.

"Just go away, Wilson," House said, hot tears running down his face, not visible to the oncologist.

"No, House," the younger man said. "I'm not leaving. We need to talk about this!"

"No," the diagnostician said. "We don't. Just go away, _please!_"

"This is important!" the other man insisted, touching House's shoulder again. The older man shifted his shoulder, trying to shake him off. Just being touched by him was agony.

"Look at me! House, I didn't know! I…I had no idea, but now…now it makes so much sense! Your open hatred for every woman I've dated, for both Bonnie and Julie, for Amber…and now Sam-it was jealousy, wasn't it?"

"You have no idea how fucking full of yourself you are," House muttered bitterly, but he didn't deny it. He barely had the strength left to keep talking. "Just go home and fuck Sam into the bed and leave me alone."

Wilson seemed to be ignoring his protests and verbal shots. "I knew you were jealous of the _time_ I spent with them," he mused, "but I didn't know that you were jealous over _me_. Why didn't you tell me? Why did you let this fester inside of you for so long?"

House closed his eyes, wishing he could just pass out into sweet oblivion, but he simply wasn't that lucky; he wasn't lucky at all.

"What do you want from me, Wilson?" House whispered, his body heaving now with barely restrained sobs. "What does any of it matter anymore? You've made it clear where we stand. Please, spare me this humiliation. Please go away." Here was the depth of his fall; he was resorting to begging.

"House," Wilson said, his voice gentle, almost sickeningly so. "I never meant to hurt you. I…I care very deeply for you. You need to believe that! I may not be _in love _with you, but no matter how hard you try to push me away, I won't let you hurt yourself anymore." He sighed heavily, shaking his head in dismay. "I've made arrangements for you to be transferred to Mayfield as soon as you're strong enough. Staying in the Psych ward here would only make you a spectacle for the other members of the staff and I don't want that to happen to you. Nolan opened a spot for you. He has no hard feelings, he understands what state of mind you're in right now. I know you don't want to go back there, that you just want to die, but that's simply not going to happen. I have to do what's in your best interest, even if you can't see that right now. When you're more stable, we'll talk this through."

House didn't care anymore; he had no dignity left. There was no hope. He started to sob and then bawl harder than he had since he was a small child huddling outside at night in the cold. He wasn't aware of exactly how long it took him to cry himself to sleep.

She was juggling her coffee, a bagel, a file folder and her briefcase as she struggled to unlock and open her office door; of course that's when the phone decided to ring. She hurried to her desk, setting the coffee cup down, dropping the file folder next to it and narrowly catching her bagel before it hit the floor. Her briefcase nearly hit her toe when she accidentally dropped it. Fortunately it didn't pop open on her. With a sigh she shut her door and then returned to the desk to answer it on the fourth ring.

"Dr. Olivia Hutton's Office," she answered calmly in her smooth alto voice. "How can I help you?" She sat down in the executive chair behind the desk, making a mental note to start interviewing candidates to be her personal assistant a.s.a.p.

"Welcome back!" a deeper, smooth male voice said from the other end of the connection. "How was your conference, Madam Keynote Speaker?"

Hutton laughed in delight, sitting back in her chair. She brushed a strand of her raven-colored hair off of her face. "Fabulous, Darryl! A ballroom full of Freudians and those who dream about being Freudians staring at me for three hours evaluating whether or not I was really one of the patients in my study and not the one who conducted it. But the food was good! You should have attended this year—they had the best blues band I've heard in these parts in a long time!"

"Duty comes before pleasure," Dr. Darryl Nolan reminded her pleasantly.

"As it always has with you," Hutton acknowledged, an edge of reproach in her tone. "Sometimes I wonder if you aren't locked up in that place along with your patients."

"So do I," he answered with a sigh. "Listen, I have a proposition for you, Liv."

"I'm shocked!" she responded teasingly as she opened the drinking slit in the lid on her coffee cup. "How long have you had this fixation on me?" She took a ginger sip of the steaming hot dark-roast.

"Since I saw you in that red number you wore to the Christmas party back in Two thousand," he quipped and she could hear the amused smirk in his voice.

"Darryl, that was a maternity dress," she told him, rolling her eyes. "I looked like a barn! As much as I love talking with you, you didn't call me during office hours to flirt. What's your proposition?"

There was a curious pause before the African-American psychiatrist answered. "I have a special patient, Liv. I've been meeting with him for over a year and before that he was an inpatient here. I thought he was showing considerable progress but unfortunately things were not as I perceived them. The first name I thought of when I was trying to come up with an alternative plan for his treatment was yours. I would appreciate it if you would consult with me on his case."

Hutton frowned, intrigued. She sat forward in her seat and set her coffee back down onto her desk. "Darryl, I completed my fellowship under _you_. What could I possibly have to offer you that you don't already know?"

"A fresh and unique perspective," he told her without hesitation. "He needs someone who can cut through his bullshit to what's really going on inside. I thought I was getting through but I missed the mark. I think you have the…personality to work well with him. Your perspective would be invaluable."

"What kind of time commitment are we talking about?" she asked as she pulled her day-planner out of the top drawer of her desk and began to flip through it. "I've only got about four hours a week to play with."

"We can work around your availability," Nolan assured her. "I'll still be his primary therapist but if you're willing I'd have you sit in on one session a week with me and then two or three with just the two of you, whatever works for you."

"Sounds reasonable," she admitted. "I'm more than happy to help you out. We can work out the scheduling later."

"That's great," he told her, sounding relieved. Knowing Nolan as well as she did, she could tell this was one of his 'special' patients—the ones he allowed himself to become a little more emotionally invested in than was probably wise. It was one of the things she had picked up on in her own practice, much to the chagrin of her hospital's chief administrator.

"So do you have time to tell me a little bit about him right now?" she asked, grabbing a pen and a legal pad that rested on her desk. "Just a brief idea of what I'm looking at here?"

"I've got ten minutes before my next appointment," Nolan told her. "His name is Dr. Gregory House. He's the Chief of Diagnostic Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro. You may have heard of him."

"Heard of him?" Hutton echoed in disbelief. "My boss practically worships the man. He has this dream of establishing a diagnostics department here along the model he created there. One of the top doctors in his field, I'm told."

"That's him," Nolan agreed. "The man has a genius level I.Q. but the emotional development of a pre-teen. He has a personal list of trauma as long as my arm that includes child abuse, abandonment, betrayal of trust, a self-esteem that gets lost in a thimble and unfinished grief over the partial loss of function of and chronic pain in his right leg due to an infarction he suffered a little over a decade ago. He never received proper treatment for PTSD following a serious bus accident that caused him a great deal of personal injury as well as the death of his best friend's girlfriend; likewise he had one of his Fellows commit suicide without any perceived indication that he was depressed. He is a recovering opiate addict. I think it's pretty safe to add untreated alcoholism to the list as well. He was an inpatient here last spring after a tough detox. He arrived in a psychotic state suffering from delusions and hallucinations which eventually disappeared once his system was cleared of the drugs and treatment began."

"Wow," Hutton said softly as she looked at the list she'd jotted down as she had listened. "From the sounds of it, it's a miracle he went as long as he did before his breakdown."

"He is an extraordinary individual in many respects," Nolan informed her. "I just received word that he attempted suicide last evening and came very close to succeeding. He's currently recovering under suicide watch in Princeton. His best friend, also a doctor and his medical proxy, is using the Baker Act to have him committed for treatment here once he is stable enough to be transferred. That will probably take place next Monday morning, barring any complications. He hasn't had a relapse as far as his Vicodin addiction is concerned so he won't have to complete detox first."

"Well," she said with a sigh. "At least there's that. What is your gut impression of Dr. House? Do you think there's a good chance of treatment ultimately being successful?"

"I always hold out hope, Liv," Nolan told her seriously. "But I think it's going to be a long, hard go of it for him and there are a lot of changes in his life that will have to take place in order for it to happen. Whether he is going to be willing or even able to make those changes remains to be seen."

Hutton doodled thoughtfully along the edge of her legal pad. "Well, then we have our work cut out for us, don't we? Like you, I'm too damned stubborn to allow a battle like this go unchallenged. I'll get back to you about my availability."

"Thank you, Liv," the older psychiatrist said earnestly before hanging up.

She stared at the phone receiver in her hand for a few moments before hanging it up.


	3. Chapter 3 Part 1 Ch 2

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** I realize that last chapter may have portrayed House in a way that seemed to be OOC, but I really don't think that's so. House has reached the absolute bottom, even lower than when he began to hallucinate at the end of S. 5. He's shattered to a thousand pieces and thus is so incredibly depressed and despondent that he isn't anywhere near himself anymore. Anyone who has been there knows what I mean and if you haven't, then take my word for it. The chapters are probably going to be shorter than I usually write so there will be many of them. The upside is that I may be able to post more frequently (maybe)! Remember, there is no intended character bashing here! (not even Cuddy—it's just part of the plot progression!)

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part One: The Dying Time**

**Chapter Two: Friday, May 21, 2010**

A nurse, reading a trashy novel, sat in a chair in his room to make certain that the diagnostician didn't attempt to harm himself again or escape the hospital to avoid being transferred to Mayfield and to find a place to hole up and finish the task he had started in his bathroom last Monday. While they were right to assume that he had similar intentions in mind, because he did, it drove him crazy not to be in control of his own life and what was going to happen to him.

He sat up in his hospital bed, no longer connected to any monitors or an IV and no longer bound. He was physically fine, except for the deep slash wounds to his arms; they had been sutured closed and bandaged to prevent infection, but they hurt like hell and would scar grotesquely. Either he would be forced to admit to the world that he was, in fact, a loser who tried to kill himself but failed or wear long-sleeved shirts for the rest of his life.

If House had his way, that wouldn't be for very long. They thought that their annoying suicide watch was going to keep him safe until he was transferred to the loony bin again, but they were wrong. No one was going to force him to continue living an agonizing, worthless life if he didn't want to. No one had ever cared about what he wanted for his life and they still didn't. Wilson had summed it up when he had said that what happened to House now wasn't up to him. Well, he had news for them: he was wrestling back control. It wouldn't be easy, but he had a plan.

Since Tuesday morning Wilson had been back to visit House a total of four times for a sum total of an hour and a half. He had stopped at the end of the day on Tuesday evening for a few minutes before apologizing for not staying longer but he and Sam had a double-date and it was too late to exchange their tickets to the symphony. It had been just as well; House had refused to even acknowledge his presence. After that Wilson had come by for fifteen, twenty minutes each lunch hour. House had been ready on Thursday to speak to him again, but when Wilson arrived in a funk and then stared at his watch every five minutes as if being there was an inconvenience for him, he had shut down again. So much for the oncologist wanting to talk over what had been revealed in their Tuesday morning disaster of a conversation. It hurt House deeply, but it didn't surprise him. After all, Cuddy had stated it at the disaster sight: Both she and Wilson were moving on with their lives and House was simply an encumbrance keeping them from moving forward. Wilson came out of a sense of obligation or guilt or simply to keep up the pretense of being a caring and loyal friend.

How had things become so bad? On the bus ride back to Princeton the day he was released from Mayfield, he had actually entertained the idea that if he did everything he was told to do and tried really hard, his life would fall into place and he would end up happy. He had allowed himself to see the sun peak from behind the dark clouds that had dominated his life. Things seemed to be going reasonably well after moving in with Wilson. He and the younger man had been working on their friendship which had been strained and put to the test after Amber's death. House was able to have his medical license reinstated and got his job back. Even the pain in his leg had seemed to be more tolerable than it had been in years.

Then the sun was swallowed up by the clouds, signaling the coming of a storm. Chase killed a dictator, Cameron found out and blamed House for turning her husband into as big of a monster as he was and stormed out of his life seemingly forever. While he had never really felt anything for his former duckling besides a sexual attraction, she had told him that she loved him and had been his strongest ally besides Wilson. When she had said what she had to him following the Dibala debacle he had realized that he had managed to alienate even her. He had been reminded of his natural ability to make people hate him and he knew that it would only be a matter of time before he did that with everyone.

Following that had been Cuddy's rejection of him at the medical conference and the rubbing in his face of her relationship with Lucas Douglas, the P.I. he'd hired to find Wilson and dig up dirt on his minions. A rain shower began to fall. While he'd never been in love with her like he was with Wilson, he had hoped that perhaps they could have gotten together and the feelings would have followed. He'd needed that because he knew that Wilson would never share his feelings for him and he didn't want to end up alone. He'd wanted to be loved by someone so desperately that her deception and the toying with his heart had been a very hard blow to his self-esteem. In essence, Cuddy had walked away from him just as Cameron had.

The showers became a steady rain when Wilson had decided to donate a lobe of his liver to a jerk. The experience had terrified House. The risk to Wilson's life had been great, and yet the oncologist hadn't seemed to care about how worried the diagnostician had been. The older man had practically screamed of his love for Wilson without actually coming out and saying, 'I'm in love with you' but the declaration had been lost on him. Either he hadn't understood or he hadn't cared. Either possibility had pained House. It had been a reminder to him that the relationship he really wanted with his best friend would never come to be. Even the purchases of the loft and the organ hadn't been enough to dispel the uneasy feeling he'd had that he and Wilson would never be more than just friends.

The rain began to come down in buckets when Wilson had reverted back to his old behavior patterns with the return of his ex-wife, Sam. Wilson was like a school girl who ditched her friends every time she had a new relationship and became completely obsessed with it. When the relationship died, the school girl would go running back to her friends to be comforted, never realizing that perhaps her friends resented being the back-up plan all of the time, just as House was to Wilson. Once again House had been supplanted by one of Wilson's lays, only to be ignored and even actively pushed away. The oncologist had no idea how much it hurt the diagnostician every time it occurred. House had told Nolan at their last session that for him, Wilson was no consolation prize knowing that as far as Wilson was concerned that's all the older man was. Yet another person, perhaps the most important person in the world to him, had gone the way of Cameron and Cuddy.

And now, he faced the Great Deluge, all alone. He knew that he would always end up alone in the end. He was unwanted, unneeded and despised.

Nobody wanted him, but nobody would let him drown and be done with the pain and loneliness. It wasn't fair, but then again, neither was life…especially his. Well, if they weren't going to willingly end the bullshit, then he would force them. His life was his, and if he wanted to die, then he was going to die whether they liked it or not.

Despite Wilson's expressed desire that House not be sent to the hospital's Psychiatric Ward on the top floor while he waited to be transferred to Mayfield early Monday morning, the Dean of Medicine had refused to provide special 'favors' for him, stating, as she had to House in Trenton, that she was done 'walking on eggshells' around him and protecting him from the consequences of his own behavior. Any other patient, she had pointed out to the oncologist, in front of House, would have been moved to the psych ward already. As far as she and her hospital were concerned, he was just another patient like any other.

Wilson had requested to talk to her alone in the corridor outside of House's glass-walled room, but he had been able to hear their argument clear as day as Wilson argued with her over the matter, calling her a spiteful, callous bitch and Cuddy calling him a selfish, sanctimonious bastard. The diagnostician, in his humiliation, had simply closed his eyes to it, wishing he could plug his ears as well. He hadn't cared where they stored him before they shipped him off to be somebody else's problem. He had just wanted them to shut up and leave him alone. In the end, Wilson had lost the battle, as House had known he would.

It was now moving day. In a few minutes a nurse and two burly orderlies would come down to his room and escort him up to the top floor where he would be locked into a 'safe' room, and kept caged like an animal until the weekend was over. The way things were looking now, House almost looked forward to Mayfield, where at least he would have some freedom to move about and interact if he wanted to; he really didn't want to, but that was beside the point. However, he had no intention of having any of this occur voluntarily.

Everyday at precisely ten-thirty a.m., House had observed from his glass-walled room that a technician from Pharmacy delivered the pre-measured doses of various medications to the nursing station. Everyday this particular tech would arrive, stop and leave the cart just inside the nursing station where anyone and their dog could easily access it given thirty seconds and no one around to see it happen. The tech would step into the charge nurse's cubicle for a coffee before unloading the unit's allotment from the cart and moving on to the next unit. She was always gone for at least five minutes, usually for ten. At the same time two other nurses took their break leaving the third to run herself ragged from room to room caring for patients until they returned. The system Cuddy had set up for the nursing staff was in desperate need of an overhaul—_after_ he completed his task, of course.

It was ten-twenty-eight a.m. according to the clock on the wall. All he had to do was distract his keeper for a few seconds for his plan to work. He was anxious to be free and had to remind himself to remain patient and not signal the nurse that he was anxious or agitated. He didn't need to be fed another dose of Valium. He closed his eyes, focusing on what he was going to do once he was free of the hospital. He would have to disappear quickly, which would be interesting while still in his hospital gown and robe. He decided he'd have to quickly find a supply closet and steal a set of scrubs before sneaking out of the building. What happened from there he didn't know.

Of course, he didn't have to leave the hospital in order to have the opportunity to die, and as he waited his mind worked out the possibilities there.

The familiar sound of the drug cart rolling towards his room brought a hint of a smile to his face. He opened his eyes and watched as the tech stopped the cart at the entrance of the nursing station just six feet from his door and went in to the charge nurse's office. It was now or never.

House made certain his guard was transfixed with her book before shoving his fingers down his throat. He hated vomiting with a passion, even though he did quite a bit of it, especially when his leg was spasming and the pain was intense. He felt himself begin to gag and knew the contents of his stomach were now available to him.

"Ohh!" the diagnostician moaned loudly as he wrapped his arms around his abdomen and doubled-over. "Oh my God, it hurts!" he managed to let out without throwing up. He continued to moan and groan. His nurse looked up from her book, at fist annoyed. As House played it up, however, her skepticism began to disappear only to be replaced with concern.

House let out a cry of agony, feeling the vomit rise up into his throat. If she didn't come immediately, his plan would fail. He was relieved when she set the book down and rose from her seat, approaching his side.

"Dr. House, where does it hurt-?"

She didn't finish her sentence before her patient vomited all over her. She jumped back, staring down at her soiled scrubs in revulsion. Before she could do anything else, House brought up the rest of what was left in his stomach; it splattered everywhere. The smell of it alone was making House retch involuntarily.

The nurse immediately ran into the small private bathroom in his room to grab something to clean up herself and the diagnostician. House wiped his mouth on the thin hospital blanket and then rolled off of the bed as quickly and carefully as he could. In one fluid motion he grabbed the hospital-issue cane next to his bed (his cane he had left behind at the disaster site) and took a stride towards the door. The moment his right foot touched the floor a bolt of excruciating pain ran from his ruined thigh to the rest of his body and he nearly screamed in agony. He knew he couldn't let it stop him and that he had to push through the pain. He had no time to waste. He could hear the tap in the bathroom still running.

He somehow made it out of his room without slipping on the puke, passing out from the pain or being grabbed by the nurse. Nobody seemed to notice as he hurried to the cart, his eyes scanning rapidly for the substances he was looking for. He smiled when he found them and grabbed three of the preloaded syringes before making a dash for the elevator. He heard his sentry sound the alarm and knew he didn't have time to wait for the elevator; he headed for the stairs. He heard the alert being broadcasted over the P.A. system hospital wide and cursed. Now he was a marked man; every staff member in the hospital would be on the lookout for him. His chances of successfully escaping the hospital were getting a lot slimmer by the second. His mind was racing through his options at lightning speed, recalling, sorting, evaluating. At the stairs he knew there was really only one viable choice.

Gritting his teeth he headed up the stairwell, two flights to the roof. He could hear, in the distance, alarmed voices behind and below him. He hoped his head start would compensate for his bum leg slowing him down as he climbed. He made it up one floor when he heard voices in the stairwell, trying to decide whether to search up or down. They only hesitated a minute before deciding to break up and send people in both directions.

Shit! House thought angrily, trying to speed up his ascent in spite of the incredible pain and muscle stiffness he was experiencing. They were advancing far too quickly. It was by sheer desperation and force of will that he made it to the roof and slammed against the lock bar; he pushed the door open. Sweat was pouring off of his body and he trembled from the exertion and the pain. Without time to figure out another course of action, the diagnostician headed for the edge of the roof. He had wanted to employ a less dramatic means to his end, but his hand had been forced. He was already climbing onto the small retaining wall that ran along the edge of the roof that was the only barrier between him and the ground below when he heard the door being slammed open behind him.

"House, No!"

The diagnostician stopped cold, one leg already over the wall so that he sat straddled it. The voice was Wilson's; it was a desperate cry that pierced his soul.

"Go away, Wilson!" House ordered with a deep, gravelly voice that was punctuated with pants for air.

"Please, stop! Don't do this!" Wilson responded, his voice shaking. House glanced back at him. The oncologist stood in his white lab coat and designer suit, a look of horror on his face, his arms outstretched towards him. His dark eyes were filled with tears. The older man had to look away, keeping the younger in his peripheral vision only. He looked at the syringes still clenched tightly in his left fist. One was filled with succinylcholine, one with potassium chloride and the third with morphine. The morphine would help sedate him and reduce pain, if any; the succinylcholine, though not as long-lasting as its cousin pancuronium used in capital punishment lethal injections, would paralyze him within seconds, including the muscles involved in respiration; the potassium chloride would stop his heart. All three drugs were commonly used in hospitals for uses like emergency intubation to treating heart dysrhythmias to pain relief. He would have used them to end his life had he had the time. Now his only choice was to jump.

"House," the oncologist said carefully, taking a couple of steps towards him, though still out of reach. "You don't have to do this! Nothing can be so bad as to make this a preferable solution. Just climb down and come towards me. I promise no one is going to hurt you."

Out of the corner of his eye House could see security personnel and medical staff pile out of the door to stand a few feet behind Wilson. On their faces was a spectrum of emotions on display: fear, anger, disgust, even amusement.

"It's too late," the diagnostician told the man who was once his best and only friend, the man that he had secretly been in love with for many years who had now replaced him with his ex-wife/current lover. Wilson didn't care if he lived or died, House decided, he just didn't want to have to live with the guilt and the stigma that would follow his suicide. "You made your choice, now I'm making mine."

He saw Cuddy emerge through the door onto the roof and move through the crowd to stand beside Wilson. She folded her arms across her ample chest and stared at him with a combination of shock and frustration.

"Are you talking about our conversation last Tuesday?" Wilson asked him, taking another step forward.

"Get back!" House yelled suddenly, causing Wilson to freeze exactly where he was. "I mean it! Step backwards, now!"

"Okay," Wilson agreed, nodding slowly. He took one step backwards. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and upper lip. "Just…just don't move! P-please don't jump…let's talk. We can talk about what you said to me. W-we need to."

"Yeah," House sneered, his voice trembling as badly as the rest of him. "You, me and half of the hospital. No thanks!"

"We can talk _alone_," the oncologist told him, using his softest, most soothing voice on him. "We'll go to my office, just you and me-no one else. We'll talk about what's going on. I'll listen. I promise not to judge you or lecture at you."

House shook his head and then took a quick glance down at the ground. A crowd of ghoulish bystanders was beginning to form below.

"The second I put both feet on the roof I'll be grabbed, restrained and sedated," House sneered; he knew the procedure just as well as the younger man did. "I'll wake up in a strait-jacket in a rubber room. I'll pass on your offer. Besides, it's a little late to talk. You've had all week to talk. By the way, how was the symphony, Wilson? Did Sam enjoy it? Was she grateful that you took her? Did she give good head on the drive home?"

Wilson closed his eyes and lowered his head for a moment; his hands went to his hips. This gave Cuddy the opportunity to throw in her two cents.

"Enough is enough, House!" she told him sternly, sounding just like a school marm chastising one of her students. "Enough of your childish temper tantrums! So things haven't turned out the way you want and people aren't allowing themselves to be manipulated by you anymore! It's time to stop trying to emotionally blackmail us and get down from there! It isn't going to work any-!"

"—Shut up!" Wilson snapped at her in fury, cutting off her tirade. "Haven't you done _enough _to hurt him? What are you trying to do—push him over the _edge_! Go back to your office—it's the only place you actually do any good!" He turned back to House, who was beginning to breathe unevenly. "House—Greg—I promise that nobody will grab and restrain you! We'll walk together to my office, just you and I. Please give this—give me—a chance! Oh God, House! I couldn't keep living if you killed yourself!"

House turned his head to look at the younger man, his eyes scrutinizing his face and body language for signs of deception; Wilson had never been very good at lying, especially to him. He looked like he was telling the truth, but….

The sound of distant sirens sounded, carried by the light wind. The police, and possibly the fire department, had been alerted and were on their way.

"No," House said softly, sounding and feeling defeated. "Talking is pointless, Wilson. We could talk until this time next year and it wouldn't make any difference. Cuddy's right. It's time that the both of you move on. So must I." He shifted his weight back on his buttocks; he dropped the syringes onto the graveled black top and held onto the ledge with both hands as he began to lift his leg up over the edge.

"House!" Wilson nearly shrieked in panic. "I don't know what the hell kind of garbage Cuddy told you, but I'm not moving on without you coming with me! House, killing yourself isn't moving on, it's running away!"

House said nothing in reply. His eyes teared up. They were just stupid, empty, useless words wrapped up in a bow. He didn't want to go along with Wilson if it meant having to put up with Sam being in the oncologist's bed and him waiting like the family dog for a scratch behind the ears and a walk once in a blue moon. That's how it would end up being; that's how it always ended up being. Well, no more. Cuddy was right—enough _was_ enough. He swung his left leg over the edge and then sat facing the open air. He looked down at the ground below at the police and the firefighters staring up at him.

So this was how it was going to end—with a splat on the ground and then nothing. It seemed so anti-climactic.

"Please don't, Greg!" Wilson begged.

_Go ahead and beg_, the diagnostician thought before taking a deep breath, closing his eyes tightly and pushing off.


	4. Chapter 4 Part 1 Ch 3

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** Hi! I felt kinda bad about leaving you hanging last chapter so instead of updating my other fic "At The Spectra" next I'm updating this one first and then going next to "At The Spectra". So those of you following along with that fic, 'be not afraid', I haven't abandoned it!

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part One: The Dying Time**

**Chapter Two: Friday, May 21, 2010**

Wilson shook from head to toe, his mind searching desperately for the right words, the ones that would convince his friend not to leap to his own death. Never in his life had the oncologist seen Gregory House as depressed and devastated as he was now. He had always seen him as somehow indestructible. Certainly, he had his vulnerable moments and weaknesses—Wilson was well aware of that—but even when the diagnostician had been hallucinating and delusional, he hadn't completely lost all hope and become suicidal. He was completely confused as he watched the older man straddle the short wall that ran around the edge of the hospital roof. When had this happened? At what point had his friend reached his ultimate breaking point? He hadn't seen this coming. Certainly House had been depressed at times, and perhaps he'd noticed him rubbing his injured thigh a little more than usual—and then, there was the increased drinking, House waking up in the neighbor kid's bed after a night of binging. He had been angry and resentful after Wilson had asked him to move out because Sam and he were going to live together. Surely that hadn't been enough to drive him to this! House had been in worse situations without completely falling apart!

He refused to accept that this was because he had asked House to leave the loft. It wasn't like House hadn't had a place to go. Wilson hadn't abandoned him, after all, and he had offered to have House move back in for a while longer to give him more time to adjust to the idea of living on his own again (Sam hadn't been enthusiastic about the idea, but she hadn't objected, either). They would still have lunch together when Sam was too busy to meet for lunch. He planned on setting time aside an evening each week to spend time solely with the older man. No, it had to have been more than that to drive him to this state. Cuddy…her engagement and plans to move in with Lucas—that had to be the straw that broke House's back.

Unless House really had meant that he was in love with the oncologist and had been for quite some time. His Cuddy theory vanished from his mind. Wilson had always known that there was much more going on between House and him than simple platonic love. He'd had fleeting thoughts and feelings of something more, especially after the older man had spent so much time encouraging him after the living organ donation. After all, House was the only relationship in his life that had lasted the tests of trial and time. Okay, okay, so maybe the thoughts had been more than fleeting, but then Sam had returned to him and reminded him how preposterous his feelings for House were. They were due to spending too much time with the man since his return from Mayfield, Wilson's own loneliness for intimate contact and nurturing, and the platonic love he had already possessed for the man, and not due to his falling in love with him.

Yet, he felt uneasy with that conclusion, too.

"Enough is enough, House!" Wilson heard Lisa Cuddy tell the diagnostician shrilly, her voice filled with disgust. Wilson looked up from his feet; he couldn't believe she was actually going to reproach a suicidal man! "Enough of your childish temper tantrums! So things haven't turned out the way you want and people aren't allowing themselves to be manipulated by you anymore! It's time to stop trying to emotionally blackmail us and get down from there! It isn't going to work any-!"

"—_Shut up!"_ Wilson snapped at her in fury, cutting off her tirade. "Haven't you done _enough _to hurt him? What are you trying to do—push him over the _edge_! Go back to your office—it's the only place you actually do any good!" He turned back to House, who was beginning to breathe unevenly. "House—Greg—I promise that nobody will grab and restrain you! We'll walk together to my office, just you and I. Please give this—give me—a chance! Oh God, House! I couldn't keep living if you killed yourself!" _Please, House! Please climb down and talk with me!_

House turned his head to look directly at the younger man and looked him in the eye; Wilson felt like he was trying to determine whether or not he could believe him. For a split second the oncologist thought that he had gotten through to him, then the sound of sirens in the distance caused House's eyes to open widely in alarm and that moment was gone.

"No," House said so softly that his best friend could barely hear him; everything about him screamed of defeat. "Talking is pointless, Wilson. We could talk until this time next year and it wouldn't make any difference. Cuddy's right. It's time that the both of you move on. So must I."

Full-fledged panic filled the oncologist as he watched the diagnostician shift his weight back on his buttocks. From out of his hand three syringes fell to the rooftop. House held onto the ledge with both hands and began to lift his leg up over the edge. Wilson's mouth went completely dry and he found himself picturing his friend lying on the ground below, his body broken beyond repair, the life in him extinguished. He felt like he was about to lose all control of his bodily functions.

_Think fast_! Wilson's mind cried. _Say something_!

"House!" Wilson shrieked desperately. "I don't know what the hell kind of garbage Cuddy told you, but I'm not moving on without you coming with me! House, killing yourself isn't moving on, it's running away!" He began to move closer to the wall; the suicidal man didn't notice. His thoughts were focused on the jump now.

The older man finished swinging his second leg over the edge of the wall. Wilson thought he heard sobs coming from him and it pierced him through. At that moment he realized that he was the one who had driven him to this; he had, along with Cuddy, his team, Tritter, Stacy and his father and every other horrible person and thing that had scarred him from the day he was born until now. The younger man wasn't innocent at all.

Wilson now moved cat-like towards his friend. House looked down, leaning precariously forward; Wilson was breathless. He watched as the muscles in the diagnostician's upper body tensed in preparation.

"Please don't, Greg!" Wilson begged, tears running down his cheeks. He was right behind him now.

He heard the older man inhale and then push with his arms.

It was pure instinct and adrenalin that drove Wilson as he leapt towards his friend.

At the same time that the older man pushed off of the wall the oncologist wrapped his arms around House's waist; he was nearly pulled forward but with all of his strength and body weight he threw himself backwards, carrying the diagnostician back with him. It all happened in slow-mo to the younger man as they both flew backwards and down. His back and hips hit the black top with bone-rattling force, sending pain from his tailbone up his spine and knocking the wind out of him. House was on top of him, motionless, likely from momentary shock. His stillness didn't last for long.

A gut-wrenching howl left House's mouth. "No-oooo!" He struggled against Wilson's hold on him, landing an elbow to the younger man's jaw and causing him to cry out in pain. Releasing his grip to grasp his jaw, Wilson lost his hold on the desperate man, who moved with the fury of a trapped animal. Before House could run back to the edge, the burly arms of a security guard threw him to the rooftop while another one was there to help immobilize him. They weren't gentle in their take down.

Wilson rolled over and pushed up onto his knees in time to see the hand cuffs being snapped over his friend's wrists. The diagnostician's face was being rubbed into the gravel that topped the tar roof. He cried out in pain, saying something about his leg.

"Stop it!" Wilson screamed, pushing himself to his feet. "He has a bad leg! Don't restrain him like a criminal!"

"Wilson!" Cuddy shouted, "He's dangerous to himself and others! He has to be restrained!"

The oncologist charged towards the guards only to have a third grab him and hold him still.

"I told you!" House spat towards Wilson as he pulled up to his feet by one of the guards. He screamed, "You liar! You son of a bitch! Damn you! It wasn't enough to pay people to keep me out of your hair and to kick me out of your life! Now you have to lock me up and throw away the key?"

The oncologist had no idea how to respond, he was so upset and angry at what was being done to his best friend. He struggled even harder to free himself from the guard when he saw a doctor approaching with a syringe, undoubtedly filled with a powerful sedative. Behind him came two orderlies with a stretcher.

"Cuddy, _for God's sake_!" Wilson yelled, glaring angrily at the Dean of Medicine. "Call them off! This is _House_, not some ax murderer!"

House turned his head around, straining to see the approaching psychiatrist with the sedative. "Get the fuck away from me!" he screamed and then looked back to Wilson, suddenly slumping and looking at him pleadingly. His voice took on a plaintiff whine to it. "Wilson, _why_? I _love_ you—why are you doing this to me?"

"House, I'm sorry! This is not my idea!" the younger man told him just before the Psychiatrist injected the sedative into the older man's neck.

"Why?" House mouthed as his eyes rolled up into his head and his body went limp.

"Let go of me!" Wilson screamed, renewing his struggle against the guard restraining him.

"Let him go!" Cuddy ordered sharply to the security guard. Reluctantly released his grip on Wilson, causing the doctor to lurch forward and almost lose his footing. He recovered quickly, watching as House's unconscious form was lifted onto the stretcher and strapped down securely with no regard to his ruined thigh.

Wilson tasted bile; he turned on Lisa Cuddy. "Breaking his heart wasn't enough for you, was it?" he hissed at her. "How can you sleep at night?"

Cuddy glared up at him, her eyes unreadable. Her voice was deep and quiet. "Go to your office and calm down, _Dr. Wilson_, before you say anything more that could jeopardize your job!" She turned on her heel and followed the stretcher off of the roof.

**Friday, May 21, 2010**

Dr. Lisa Cuddy stood next to the Chief of Psychiatry, Dr. Xiang Li (Lily). They looked through a one way mirror into a bare, square shaped room with a heavily matted floor and padded walls. There were no windows and devoid of any kind of furniture or fixtures except for a single fluorescent lamp that hugged the ten foot high ceiling and was kept on constantly during the daytime. Lying on his side, bound tightly in a strait jacket, on the matted floor, House remained unconscious. His mouth drooped open and a pool of saliva grew slowly on the floor beneath his mouth. He looked pale and drawn and at least ten years older than he truly was. There were minor abrasions on one side of his face from the graveled blacktop of the roof. He looked completely helpless.

It bothered the Dean of Medicine to see him that way. He had always seemed to have nine lives; nothing ever completely defeated him, not disease, not injury, not heart break, not drugs—nothing. Yet here he was, lying in a fetal position in a straitjacket, a broken, shattered, defeated man. Was it possible that he had finally met his Waterloo? Had been defeated by the pain, the loneliness and disappointment? Was she in some way responsible for what had become of him? She knew the answer to that and it stung her heart. She knew that the decisions she had made for herself and Rachel were for their best, but she'd forced herself not to think about the effect they had on the people around her, especially Gregory House. Cuddy shook her head at herself. She had screwed up, deceived him only to hurt him with the surprise news that she and Lucas were a couple. If she had only been honest from the start, but she knew that if onlies didn't solve the problem or fix the damage.

She wasn't so vain as to think that her rejection of House alone had made him suicidal. There were so many factors that she knew of, and so many more that she didn't. The truth of the matter was, life had dealt the diagnostician a stinker of a hand but the way he had chosen to play those cards had been up to him, and for the most part, he had played them poorly. Did he still have a chance of pulling out of defeat to end up winning the hand? She hoped so, but she wasn't equipped to help him, and neither was Wilson. She had to hope that there was another player with a few extra wild cards up his or her sleeve House could borrow to help him survive.

"Is he going to be okay?" Cuddy asked Dr. Xiang, her voice not much more than a whisper.

"It depends upon how you define okay," the psychiatrist equivocated. "Physically, he'll be fine once the sedative wears off. At that time we'll assess his state of mind to determine whether or not to remove the straitjacket. At that time we may be able to tell whether his behavior is physiologically or functionally based. If there is some physical illness causing this, there may be treatment available that would bring correction. If it's functional…well, that complicates arriving at a prognosis greatly."

"But he's already in a room where there's nothing he can use to hurt himself," the Dean of Medicine pointed out, frowning. "Is the straitjacket even necessary?"

"You'd be surprised how a person motivated enough can hurt himself using his own body," Xiang told her, shaking her head ruefully. "I once had a patient who managed to swallow her own tongue and choke herself. Now, not everybody is even capable of doing that, but you get my point. Where there is a will there is almost always a way. On top of the fact is that we have to think about the safety of the staff who are working with Dr. House. If he was to be without his straitjacket on in there and was violent, one or more members of my staff could end up getting badly hurt. Until he is awake and we know what his mental status is, the jacket has to stay on."

"He hates to be restrained," Cuddy whispered regretfully as she looked back into the room. "He panics."

Xiang nodded. "Don't worry, Dr Cuddy. We really do know what we're doing up here."

Cuddy sighed and nodded, but she was far from convinced about that. Taking a final look in House's direction, the Dean of Medicine then left, heading to her office to be alone and think.

**Saturday, May 22, 2010; 2:48 A.M.**

He couldn't get his key into the keyhole and he wondered if something was wrong with the lock. Or maybe it was because he saw two locks and two keys and had very little control over his hand. Wilson sniggered to himself and leaned against the door to his loft for support. If he couldn't even stand up straight, how was he supposed to get two little keys into two itsy-bitsy locks? He knew he had to figure it out soon because he really had to pee, and he was never very good at controlling his bladder when he was pissed-out-of-his-mind drunk. He crossed his legs, still sniggering at how ridiculous he must look, if there had been anyone else in the corridor to see him, which there wasn't.

It occurred to him that Sam was inside, probably sitting on the sofa in the living room, ready to tear into him the moment he entered the loft. He would hear about how irresponsible it was to get drunk and be out all night without calling home to tell her where he was and that he was alright. Blah, blah, blah. And blah. That was alright. He would pay no attention; he had a lot of practice, both long past and recent, at ignoring her. Jeez, he wished House was there; the older man could always unlock a door no matter how plastered he was. That is, if he made it to the right apartment in the first place.

Wilson wondered if the neighbor kid's bed was comfortable. He had to have a bathroom too, right?

With pissing his pants a distinct possibility if he didn't get to a toilet like, yesterday, already, he used the fist holding his keys to bang loudly and incessantly on the door.

"Sam!" he slurred very loudly. "Open the door, sweetheart! I have to take a piss! Hurry! Sam? Come on, honey! Open the door!"

He heard the sound of stamping feet just on the other side of the door and then the sound of the deadbolt sliding open. The door opened with a click and it opened inward. The oncologist, still using the door to hold himself upright, stumbled after it, nearly crashing into the pretty, fortyish blonde standing there in her Lavender satin robe. He fell to his knees on the floor and laughed drunkenly until his full bladder reminded him of a task he had yet to complete. He pulled himself up to his feet using the half-moon table standing near the entrance.

"James!" Samantha Carr exclaimed in dismay. "You're drunk!"

"Just a little," Wilson answered, pinching the air with his fingers. " 'Scuse me, I have to pee!"

Staggering, his way around furniture, using it to keep his balance, towards the nearest bathroom, the one that had been House's when he was still living there. He dropped his trousers along the way, nearly tripping over them and pulled his underwear down as soon as he reached the bathroom. He was dribbling a little before he reached the toilet, but most of it made it to the basin.

Sam had followed him to the darkened room, shaking her head in disgust. She leaned against the door jamb watching his drunken display, silhouetted by the light in the hallway behind her. Her ample lips were twisted into something like a sneer.

"That's great, James," she told him disdainfully, "just lovely. I'm not cleaning that up!"

Wilson shook the last couple drops off and then pulled up his shorts, turning to look at her.

"When do you _ever_ clean _anything_ up?" the oncologist asked her snidely. He remembered to flush, at least, and then stumbled past her, heading towards the kitchen. She was immediately on his tail. He went to the refrigerator and opened it.

"James, you didn't even wash your hands!" his girlfriend/ex-wife told him, screwing up her face.

" 'S'okay, the fridge won't care," he told her as he moved the milk carton from the ledge in the door to the shelf in the body of the fridge. "I thought you told me it was _House_ who kept putting the milk in the door?" He said sourly, glaring at her. He grabbed a beer and headed to the living room where he flopped onto the sofa in front of the TV and twisted the cap off of the bottle. He grabbed the remote control and turned on the TV. There was little more than infomercials on the local and network channels at that time of night—or, rather, morning. He took long pull from the bottle and then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. It didn't matter what was on, it was really just a way for him to distract himself from her anyway.

Perching herself on the arm of the sofa she scowled at him. "This isn't acceptable, James! We talked about this, about how you were going to call when you were going to be late. I was worried sick about you!"

Wilson looked at her with watery eyes and smirked cynically. "Of course you were, Sam ," he scoffed sarcastically, "You were doing it in your sleep, but I'm certain it was a very traumatic experience nonetheless." He took another pull from his beer.

"I wasn't asleep!" she protested shrilly.

"That's why it took you so long to answer the door," he insisted. "I saw the bedroom door open with the bedside lamp on when I was heading to the head. Get it?" he giggled at his own joke. "I was heading to the head, which also means toilet? See what I did there?"

She was not at all amused. She ground her teeth hard enough that it was audible. The oncologist cringed as if someone was running their fingernails down a chalkboard.

"_God _I hate it when you grind your teeth!" he told her irritably, covering his right ear with his hand and his left with his beer bottle. "I have to hear it while I'm trying to sleep, do I have to suffer through it while I'm awake, too?"

"Oh really!" the blonde snapped defensively. "Is there anything else I do that you find objectionable?"

"Too many to get into now," he muttered, looking away from her and at the TV. He had no idea what was on the screen. All he could make out were colors in constant motion.

She jumped to her feet and shook her finger at him. "You're not the easiest person to live with either, you know! You are so OCD, I've been tempted to write you a script for Anafranil! Everything has to be done your way and exactly your way or you freak out!" She stopped, closed her eyes and shook her head. After taking a deep breath she said to him. "Look, I don't want to fight, James. I have to be up in less than three hours. Will you at least tell me why you were out getting smashed?"

Wilson set his bottle onto the coffee table—on a coaster, of course. He leaned back in the sofa, tilted his head to look at the ceiling and rubbed his face with his hands.

"House told me once that you hate him but pretend not to in front of me," he told her tiredly. "Is that true?"

Sighing, Sam shook her head and rolled her eyes. "No, that's _not_ true! I _do_ like him, he's just being paranoid. Paranoia often accompanies depression, you know."

Regarding her suspiciously he asked, "Are you certain you want to stick with that answer?"

She frowned. "James, what are you implying? Are you accusing me of lying? Why would I do that?"

"I don't know," the oncologist answered, glaring at her, "but I really wish I did. You know that night that House prepared dinner for us, a kind of peace offering I guess? Remember when I left the room? Well, I came back to say something but stopped when I heard your little tete-a-tete with him. It sounded so interesting that I didn't want to interrupt. Now, we both knew that House didn't like you and I suspected that the whole dinner thing was a ruse of some kind. That's House. He is who he is and whether he likes to hear it or not, he can be very predictable sometimes. What I had no idea of was just how much you disliked _him_. When he told me that, I argued with him that it wasn't true but I knew that it was. You've been lying to me all this time, haven't you, Sam? What else have you lied to me about?"

She glared at him stony faced, her blue eyes as cold as ice. She hugged herself as she answered. "Nothing. House is the liar. He's the user who has mooched off of you and manipulated you for years, but for some reason you just can't see that! Why is it that you turn a blind eye to that, but you notice every little quirk I have and every little mistake I make?" She shook her head angrily. "I don't have to put up with this. I'm going to bed!" She turned and started towards the bedroom when Wilson's voice stopped her. It was so sharp, so uncharacteristically angry that she couldn't help but stop.

"He tried to jump off of the roof of the hospital today, Sam! If I hadn't grabbed him in the nick of time he would have fallen to his death! I have never been as scared in my life as I was today. _Never_."

The image of House's face, the absolute defeat that had been etched there, flashed before him again and the oncologist wondered if he would ever be able to forget it.

"James," she started but Wilson wouldn't allow her to speak. She was going to listen. God knows he'd had to listen to a lot of her pointless and unimportant chatter over the past couple of weeks. Now she could shut up and listen to him.

"He asked me why I was doing this to him," he mused. "He told me that he loved me. He _loves_ me, Sam. He's been slowly falling to pieces and I've been too busy sniffing you like a dog to even notice. I didn't notice just how much he was drinking and how often. He's gone to work without fully sobering up first. The pain in his leg has been getting worse. I wasn't aware of that either. I think he tried to tell me but I was too infatuated with you and my own interests to even notice and House has never been one to do a lot of complaining. Usually he'll hide his pain from me; I think he doesn't want to frighten or hurt me with the news. Maybe he thinks I won't believe him or care. His entire team had noticed it as well as the drinking, but his best friend—me—didn't have a clue. Instead of being there to support him through his struggles like I told him I would, I paid people to take him off of my hands so I could spend all of my time with you—because you demanded it."

"You deserve to have a life of your own, James!" Sam told him. "We deserved a chance to see if we could work, and with House around all of the time trying to sabotage us we didn't have a chance! 'Two's company, three's a crowd', remember! Don't blame yourself for wanting a life and certainly don't blame me for wanting one with you!"

Wilson rose unsteadily from the sofa and turned to face her. "I did have a life, Sam. That's the thing…I had a life and before you poked me on Facebook, I was pretty satisfied with it. In fact, the time I got to spend with House since he left Mayfield was probably the best part of my life. I've never felt so close to him and for the first time in twenty years he was starting to open up and talk to me about things I never thought he'd be able to tell anyone, ever. He was getting better—he _was_. The only thing that I felt was missing was physical intimacy—sex. House was able to provide me with everything else I needed except that."

Putting her hands on her hips, Sam looked at him quizzically, frowning. "Where is this going, James? What are you trying to tell me? That the only reason you got together with me again was for the sex? That all I am is some kind of…some kind of surrogate or…or concubine? Don't you need me for anything else?"

Wilson stared at her for a long time before answering. "No," he said softly, shaking his head. "I don't. I'm sorry, Sam. I've been using you, conducting this relationship under false pretences. All you are to me is a sexual outlet. House is able to provide me with everything else. But, I'm not sure I even need you for that anymore."

"What?" Sam cried, completely shocked by what she was hearing. "I can't believe what I'm hearing! You're drunk, James! You don't even know what you're saying and tomorrow, after you sober up, you probably won't even remember any of this! I'm going to bed!"

Wilson staggered after her down the corridor towards the master bedroom. "I know exactly what I'm saying! Sam, I know exactly what I'm saying! The whole time I was sober I didn't get it—I wouldn't allow myself to get it. It wasn't until I got drunk and stopped lying to myself that it all became clear. Before you re-entered the picture, I was having feelings and…and thoughts about House. I tried to deny that they meant anything, except that they kept getting stronger and more frequent. I started have dreams about him and I…you know…together. Fucking."

"Oh my God!" she said, stopping dead in her tracks and spinning around to face him. Her eyes were as round and wide as saucers and her mouth looked like a luncheon plate. "I can't believe this! This is insane! Do you even hear yourself? You're saying that you want to fuck you male best friend!"

Shrugging the oncologist acknowledged. "Yeah, there are times when I think about what it would be like to fuck House. You know what?—I get turned on. Would I do it? I don't know…maybe. Probably. I think I'm in love with him, too. I'm certain I'm not in love with you."

"Are you telling me that you're gay?" Sam asked. She was absolutely astounded.

Wilson thought about that as well as his alcohol-pickled mind was able. "I don't know, Sam. Maybe…maybe I am. Sometimes, when I'm having sex with you, I imagine myself with…with him. All I know is that I want the whole package; I don't want to be in love with him but fucking you. I want to be in love with _him_ and fucking _him_. Every night. And morning. Lots and lots of fucking. He told me he's in love with me…well, he insinuated it and when I asked him he didn't deny it. I've been pushing away the best thing that has ever happened to me because I had a hang up about being gay."

Sam moved towards him and reached out as if to touch him. "But you're _not_ gay, James. You like women too much. You're just confused and upset over House's insanity-!"

"If he's insane then it's my fault!" the oncologist shouted, backing away from her. "I've made a huge mistake, I've hurt him to the point where he doesn't think there's any hope. It's my fault, but I'm gonna fix it. A big part of that is…to ask you to leave, Sam. I want _you_ to move out. I'll give you two weeks to make other arrangements; I'll even help you find another place. We're done. When House is done in Mayfield, he's moving back with me for good, if he'll come back to me. I just hope he can forgive me. I hope I haven't lost him. I can't lose him."

During his speech Sam had been listening with incredulity which had slowly transformed into utter disgust.

"I'll be out of here tomorrow," she told him bitterly, tears running down her cheeks. "I thought I knew you. I thought you'd changed—but you haven't! You're the same selfish, fucked up bastard I had the good sense to divorce. You can sleep anywhere but with me! Good night, James." She hurried into the master bedroom and slammed the door hard enough to make the walls rattle.

Wilson smirked, unable to feel badly for her; House had been right about him. He had been making a big mistake. He only hoped that he had corrected that mistake before it was too late. He made his way to the organ he had bought for his best friend, only to kick him out a few weeks later. Uncovering the stool, he sat down on it and put his hand on the instrument. What if it _was_ too late? What if House never recovered from this? What if he did, but no longer wanted anything to do with the oncologist because he was unable to forgive him for the numerous times he had pushed House away in favor of someone else. If that happened, Wilson wouldn't be able to blame him. He had betrayed the diagnostician's trust in him over and over again and everything had a limit—including a person's ability and willingness to forgive and forget.

Wilson had to admit that if he were House, he would never be able to forgive him. That bitter little pill sat in the pit of his stomach, burning a hole through it. Did the oncologist even have the right to expect anything else?

He made his way to the extra bedroom—House's bedroom. On the bed was one of Sam's boxes that she hadn't unpacked yet. Well, he decided, it was one less she would have to repack. He pushed it to the floor and heard what sounded like glass breaking. Oh well. He hadn't bothered changing the sheets and comforter after House moved out. He pulled back the covers and climbed on the bed, pulling them over him. He tried to bury his face in the pillow and realized that it all smelled like his best friend. It wasn't a bad odor or anything. It was simply the unmistakable scent that Wilson had silently enjoyed for years. Taking a deep breath and allowing House's scent to soothe him, he quickly fell asleep.


	5. Chapter 5 Part 1 Ch 4

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** A short connector chapter but I think an important one! Enjoy!

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part One: The Dying Time**

**Chapter Four: Saturday, May 22, 2010; 12:03 P.M.**

Gregory House screamed desperately but the dayshift psych nurse assigned to him ignored him as she walked past the not-quite soundproof Safe Room, where he was being kept, to the nurse's station in PPTH's Unit 77, the Psychiatric Acute Care Ward. The most unstable and severe cases were kept there until they were stable enough to move to one of the short-term wards like Units 75 and 76. The nurses' station was sealed behind four inch safety glass with a couple of air vents built into it and a window that slid open and shut to allow the staff to hand out meds and other items to the patients without having to leave the safety of their 'fortress'. To access behind the desk, past the barricade, staff had to punch into a digital number pad a specific code unique to each of them and then slide a thumb or index finger across a print-reader to unlock the door. Each staff member's code was changed weekly to prevent the chance of a security breach allowing a potentially dangerous patient into the area of refuge and protection.

Nurse Dee-Dee punched in her code, scanned her thumb print; she saw the red indicator light on the key pad turn green and heard the unmistakable click of the lock opening. She pulled the door open and quickly stepped inside, shutting the door tightly and waiting for the click as it locked before taking a seat at the desk and scribbling notes into the world-renowned diagnostician's chart.

Even from the glassed off station across a twenty-foot common area (where the odd patient or two sat at the tables putting puzzles together or drooling on themselves in their Thorazine hazes) House could be heard screaming, slowly losing energy and volume as he cried out for help, to be released from the straitjacket, for relief for the pain in his leg which he claimed was excruciating. A few times he begged brokenly, only to be denied any answer. Dee-Dee knew that in a few more minutes he would completely exhaust himself. Only then would she go into the safe room to bring him food, water and non-narcotic pain medication—as well as yet another sedative shot; only this time it would only be Ativan which would calm him but not completely knock him into La-La land; later in the day Dr. Xiang would be around to assess him and she didn't want him so drugged up that he was unable to answer any of her questions.

Another nurse in the Fortress sat down next to Dee-Dee to fill out a chart of his own.

"He's got lungs," Kendall said with a crooked grin, "I'll give him that. I've heard from some of the staff that work in oncology that there are days where they can hear him clear as day as he screams at his Fellows for the stupid answers they give him."

"Lots of practice, then," the subject's nurse returned drily. "How the mighty have fallen! All I can say is that I'll be glad for Monday to arrive."

"Why's that?"

"He gets transferred out of here to a long-term facility in Middleton on Monday," she answered with a smirk. "Mr. Primadonna can make _their_ lives miserable then."

"What'd he do to get locked in Padded Paradise?" Kendall asked, signing his name and documenting the time on the chart he was updating before placing neatly on the stack in front of them.

"He was found in his bathroom at home with his arms sliced up," she answered, placing House's chart on the stack as well. "Then he escaped his hospital room and tried to jump off the roof. He actually did jump but someone caught him the moment he did and pulled him back to safety; Lucky bastard!"

Kendall looked at her funny for a moment and then nodded towards the Safe Room. "You call that lucky?" he asked before rising from the desk and heading to the medicine locker.

Not bothering to answer, Dee-Dee moved on to her next patient's chart. House was beginning to tire out although occasional he could still be heard yelling for attention. By twelve-thirty she had caught up on her charting and was about to sign out for her lunch break when the buzzer from the external door rang in the enclosure. The door leading in and out of Unit 77 was kept locked and alarmed at all times, just in case one of the ward residents managed to get past the staffers present and try to make a break for it. She went to the intercom panel and pressed the respond button, talking into a little speaker.

"How can I help you?" she asked, looking up at a small C.C. monitor that displayed the camera shot of the corridor just outside the Unit. A man in his early forties wearing casual dress but bearing a hospital staff I.D. card stood waiting. He looked like he had just awoken…that, or he had a hangover.

"Dr. James Wilson to see Dr. Gregory House. I believe Dr. Cuddy notified you…?"

Dee-Dee was already checking the computer for the list of authorized persons to have contact with the diagnostician and the name Wilson was on it. His name sounded familiar to her.

"Yes, we have a Dr. Wilson on the list," she responded. "Please place your I.D. badge up to the camera just above the speaker you're talking into so I can confirm your identity, Doctor."

The dark-haired man unclipped his I.D. from the hem of his polo shirt and placed it up to the lens. She looked at it briefly.

"Confirmed, Dr. Wilson," she told him. Now she remembered where she had heard his name—he was the Chief of Oncology and the guy who prevented House from falling to his death. She was relatively new at PPTH but she had heard the buzz about him and the chief diagnostician and their antics. "I'll be right there to let you in."

Dee-Dee left the Fortress and walked down a corridor towards the secured access door. Going through the same procedure as with the door to the Fortress, she unlocked the door and opened it to admit the visitor. He stepped through and then she made certain that the door was shut and locked again.

"Hello, Dr. Wilson," she greeted with a smile. "I'm Dee-Dee and I'm Dr. House's primary care nurse. Follow me." She led him to the Fortress where she stopped and looked at him again. "While you're here I'll have to take your keys, wallet, loose change, any pens or pencils you may have and anything else on your person that could potentially be used to cause physical harm should Dr. House or any of the other patients get a hold of them by accident. They'll be kept in the station until your visit is over and you're prepared to leave."

Wilson looked at her strangely, a bit surprised at the procedure. He knew this was the acute care ward but hadn't expected security to be quite this tight. Without argument he emptied his pockets and handed the items over to the nurse. She remained where she was.

"I'll need to take your I.D. badge as well, Dr. Wilson," she told him pleasantly. "The metal clip could be used to cut flesh."

Wilson's eyes opened widely at the realization of that. As he handed the badge over he heard a blood-curdling scream come from the Safe Room. He knew that scream.

"Is that House?" he demanded, instantly alarmed. His friend sounded tortured.

Nurse Dee-Dee nodded, apparently unaffected by it. "Yes. He's been a tad upset since the sedation wore off this morning. He claims to be in pain but until he calms down I can't go in to give him medication."

Wilson was appalled. "He's not going to calm down if he's in agony!" he told her angrily. "Which room is he in?"

"Across the common area," she told him. "The third room to your right." She turned to unlock the door to the Fortress as the oncologist marched towards said room. Wilson found said room and peered in through the thick safety glass window in the door. Chill ran down his spine and then seeped to the bone.

Gregory House lay on a matted floor, bound up helplessly in a straitjacket. His entire body appeared to be shaking; a thin sheen of sweat covered his face and neck, his hair was soaked with it, and his brilliant blue eyes were clouded. His face was red from the exertion of screaming, something he must have been doing for quite some time. He appeared to be lying in a pool of his own vomit. Fury filled Wilson, as did grief. He clenched his fists so tightly that his fingernails cut into the palms of his hands. House didn't appear to be aware of his presence and his body convulsed every so often in pain. He cried out again.

"My leg!" he screamed. "My fucking leg! Please…please help me. Please kill me!"

Wilson nearly vomited and rushed back to the Fortress, trembling in outrage. Dee-Dee looked through the glass at him.

"Get him some pain meds now!" he yelled angrily. "Sixty milliliters Toradol injectible and ten milliliters methocarbamol intramuscular! I'll take it in and give it to him myself!"

"Doctor, I'll have to get confirmation from Dr. Xiang," Dee-Dee told him as Kendall came up beside her, frowning.

"I'm his physician of record and his medical proxy," Wilson told her firmly, cringing when he heard another scream from the safe room. "Get the meds, then cover your ass with Xiang! Page Dr. Cuddy—have her come up immediately!"

"Get the meds," Kendall said to her softly. "I'll page Xiang and Cuddy."

Dee-Dee nodded nervously and headed to the medicine locker. Wilson returned to the safe room door and peered in. The diagnostician was sobbing hard. The oncologist couldn't believe the hell they were allowing him to endure while they callously followed procedure to the letter.

"Help's coming, House," Wilson said softly; the only thing that kept him from tearing up himself was the rage he felt coursing through his body. He needed to get into there, unbind him and get the pain under control; the possibility of cardiopulmonary distress increased the longer the diagnostician was left unattended to.

It took Dee-Dee what seemed like an eternity to emerge from the Fortress with the medications and the injection tray. Wilson glared with open hostility as she unlocked the safe room door. Wilson snatched the tray and her stethoscope away from her and headed into the room. The stench of vomit, urine and feces in the room was almost overwhelming.

Dee-Dee made to follow him.

"Stay the hell out until I decide I need you!" Wilson snarled at her. She jumped slightly at the anger in his voice and remained outside in the corridor, watching through the small window.

The oncologist forced himself to ignore her and took deep breaths to calm him down. He quickly knelt next to his best friend and set the tray aside on the floor within his reach. House was still moaning and sobbing and occasionally screaming as his ruined thigh spasmed anew, sending fresh agony through him. He didn't seem to be at all aware that someone else was in the room with him. Wilson felt his eyes tear up but he forced himself to keep himself under control. House needed him to be strong. Ever so carefully the younger man placed his hands on the older man's arm. As soon as the physical contact was made the diagnostician flinched and recoiled automatically. His confused blue eyes opened enough to look up at the new presence.

"Easy!" Wilson told him soothingly. "House it's me, Wilson. It's me…I'm here to help you."

House's breathing was irregular and ragged; the muscles on his face seemed to spasm just as badly as the ones in his leg. The older doctor didn't seem to recognize him at first, but at least calmed enough to stop screaming. Wilson gently rubbed his back through the straitjacket and spoke very softly and gently.

"It's alright. I'm here now. I have medication for the pain and the muscle spasms. I need to remove the straitjacket so I can give them to you. Do you understand me?"

The diagnostician nodded slowly, and a light came on in his eyes. "Wilson?" he asked, his voice so strained from all the screaming that he barely had one left. His lips were dry and his eyes looked sunken. He wasn't only in pain but he was dehydrated. Wilson cursed to himself at the incompetence and cruelty of the psych staff.

"Yes," the oncologist said gently with a smile. He caressed the older man's cheek for a moment and smiled softly at him. "It's me. I'm here…it's going to be alright."

But it wasn't alright—House's thigh lay bare where the hospital gown had ridden up in his struggles and Wilson could see the fresh spasm wrench away what was left of his quadriceps. House screamed again in pain and Wilson set immediately to work unhooking and untying the straitjacket that cruelly bound his best friend and made him completely helpless. Once it was off House straightened out his arms and let them hang limply at his sides, moaning loudly. It was like he had no more strength left anywhere in his body. The spasm hit again and he screamed for half-a second and then his voice died on him. He didn't even have what it took to grab at his thigh. He looked up at the oncologist with pain-dulled eyes.

Wilson had to look away from him if he was going to be able to care for him rather than break down into guilt-filled sobs. He put on a pair of gloves provided on the tray and then began to draw the required amount of each medication into two separate syringes. As he did this he kept talking to House, trying to keep him engaged.

"I'm sorry for what they've done to do," he told the diagnostician. "I didn't know this was going to happen. It's going to be alright. I won't leave your side until the transfer takes place. I'll make certain they treat you like a human being instead of an animal." Wilson grabbed two alcohol swabs; tearing the package on the first one he pulled out the alcohol soaked tissue out of it and began to clean the area on House's arm where he was going to inject the Toradol. The powerful NSAID would work a hell of a lot better than plain old ibuprofen did. While it could only be used in acute circumstances for a few days before the potential for stomach and intestinal damage became too great to continue, it would get the older man through the worst of this now. Wilson took House's arm, holding it across his lap to add stability to it, and skillfully injected the pain killer into his vein. Withdrawing the needle he then put a band-aid over the puncture and turned his attention to House's hip. Once again he swabbed the injection sight.

"This is going to burn, House," Wilson told him. "Try to stay still—I don't want to break the needle off inside of you."

House only moaned as he was given the injection of the muscle relaxant intramuscularly. Once he was finished with that Wilson pushed the tray away and then lifted his best friend off of the matted floor, cradling him on his mat.

"Liar," House whispered after a few moments as the medications began to take effect.

"Shh," Wilson said softly, wiping sweat and vomit off House's face with a cloth provided on the tray. "I didn't know."

"Why?" House murmured, completely exhausted. "I thought you were my friend."

"I _am_ your friend, House," the oncologist assured him gently.

"No," was the response, as House gazed up at him with tortured eyes. "You dumped me…for _her_. You paid my team to get me out of your hair. You kicked me out. You're committing me so that you never have to deal with me again."

A huge lump formed in the younger man's throat and his eyes teared up. "I've been stupid, House. I know that and I'm sorry. All I wanted was a life of my own but I went about it in the worst and most misguided way. You need help that I can't give you but when you're stronger, you're coming back to the loft for good."

"Never," House gasped, barely shaking his head. "Never with her."

Wilson forced House to meet his gaze. "She's gone, House," he told him. "I told her to leave. I don't love her. I love _you_."

"Don't lie," House nearly begged. "Don't tell me you love me, Wilson. You don't care. You're shipping me away."

"I'm not lying," the oncologist insisted. "I'm not shipping you away. I'm getting you the help you need to get better! But you won't be there forever, and when you're released I want you to move back into the loft. It's your home, House. It always will be."

"No," House breathed. "I don't have a friend. I don't have a home. I never have."

Before Wilson could respond to that House drifted off to sleep. Wilson listened to his heart and breathing with the stolen stethoscope to make certain he wasn't in any kind of distress. It hurt so badly to know how House really felt. The oncologist knew he had no excuses worthy of consideration. Did the diagnostician really believe that he was completely alone? Or was he telling Wilson that he felt that Wilson had never been a true friend to him and they were not friends anymore? Was House now dumping _him?_

The door to the safe room opened again. Wilson looked up to see Lisa Cuddy (sans heels, which she left outside the door) and Dr. Lily Xiang enter the safe room. He glared at both women hostilely. Cuddy's eyes opened in shock as she knelt next to him and the diagnostician sleeping deeply in his arms.

Turning to look back at Xiang, who had remained just inside the door, Cuddy said severely, "You told me you knew what you were doing! This man is in terrible shape! Has any of your staff tended to him since the last time I was here?"

Xiang lifted her head almost defiantly. "I will have to check the chart."

"You don't know?" Wilson spat, his usually calm demeanor noticeably absent. "When I arrived here he was screaming hysterically, Doctor! He was crying out for help with the pain! He was bound up like a lunatic in a straitjacket! He was in obvious cardiopulmonary distress! He's badly dehydrated! His nurse told me that she couldn't go in to help him until he calmed down, but there was no way he could calm down without passing out first because of the pain! I'm going to be filing a complaint of gross negligence to the board of this hospital as well as with the state governing body for Psychiatrics and the state medical board!"

"He was a danger to the welfare of my staff!" Xiang told him angrily.

"Look at him!" Wilson ordered in disbelief. "He's not a danger to anyone! He was too weak and in too much pain before I took care of him! He's vomited several times but nothing was done to ensure that he didn't aspirate on it! He's been lying in his own waste for God only knows how long! Cuddy, did you know that he was in a straitjacket all this time? Were you aware of the fact that they had no intention of caring for him and treating him like a human being?"

The Dean of Medicine looked sickened. "I knew he was being kept in the jacket," she admitted. "But I was assured it was absolutely necessary and that he would be cared for!" She turned on Xiang. "He's being transferred to a regular psych ward—after he is cleaned up, examined and treated for any injuries or complications he's suffered from this disaster! He will not be restrained without contacting Dr. Wilson or me first! If extra security or staffing is required for his safety then I'll authorize it—but he is going to be treated like a human being! Dr. Xiang, I will see you in my office at three o'clock. Don't be late!"

Xiang left the room without another word and Dee-Dee and Kendall rushed in to tend to House, sheepishly avoiding Wilson's and Cuddy's eyes. Wilson reluctantly surrendered House, who was still out like a light. He and Cuddy moved out of the way but remained in the room to keep a close eye on House.

"Nice act," Wilson muttered angrily to the Dean. "You really sounded like you give a damn!"

"You're one to talk!" Cuddy hissed. "You're the one who kicked him to the curb to please your girlfriend!"

"You're right," Wilson agreed, surprising her a little. "We've both been assholes to him. Neither one of us has been half the friend of his that we've claimed to be. As much as I hate to admit it, he may be better off without us."

Cuddy scoffed at that. "He _needs_ us. Who else does he have?"

"He _needs_ people he can count on to be there for him," the oncologist said, angrier at himself than her. "Now that I've figured that out, it could be too late!"

Shaking her head, unwilling to accept what he was saying, she marched out of the safe room. Wilson stayed behind; he wasn't going to let the diagnostician out of his sight.


	6. Chapter 6 Part 1 Ch 5

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** House gets transferred, but is it a positive change or not? What does this mean for him and the people he is leaving back in Princeton? Thank you to everyone for the overwhelmingly encouraging reviews! I am so happy to know that you are both enjoying this story and are willing to share your thoughts and ideas with me! I really do appreciate it!

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part One: The Dying Time**

**Chapter Five: Monday, May 24, 2010; 9:30 A.M.**

For the past year, he woke up every morning and recited the same mantra to himself before even crawling out of bed_: I will not screw up today. I will never go back to Mayfield again._ It had been not only a goal for House, but also a promise to himself. For a year he had fought the urge to take the Vicodin, especially when the pain got so bad that he would have done almost anything for relief. With each disappointment and heartbreak that had come his way, in spite of doing the right things, things he had been told would help him find happiness, he had avoided relapsing, just so he wouldn't have to return to Mayfield and face the horror he had endured the first time around; and while this time he didn't have to go through the absolute hell of drug withdrawal, he returned knowing that everyone knew the same thing he did: he was a failure.

Death, as far as he was concerned, was a far better fate than going back to the loony bin; he would never lose the stigma of being mentally ill, no matter what happened to him there. As it was, he knew that his job at PPTH and his career as a doctor were over. There was no way he would be able to keep his license after this, and he knew that the hospital board would be unwilling to give him another chance—even if he wanted one. Cuddy had given up on him a long time ago and now she refused to even acknowledge him as a colleague, let alone a friend. There was no way that she would argue his case for him. She was 'moving on' and wouldn't allow him to interfere in that in anyway ever again. Wilson had finally figured out a way to be rid of him. Yes, the oncologist had told him that Sam was gone, just as House had predicted would be the case eventually, but that didn't change anything. Sure, Wilson wanted him back now that he was alone again, but the diagnostician knew that it was only a matter of time before another bodacious rack came around, caught his eye, and he would be on his way out with Wilson moving her in just like he always did. Wilson hadn't changed and House doubted that he ever would. Nobody ever changes.

House didn't want to be the Booby Prize anymore. He was tired of being worthless, unwanted, uncared for and alone. Since that was all his life had ever been and the future promised more of the same, he just wanted to be swallowed up into the nothingness of death. Yet even that was kept from him. It was yet another reminder that his life was not his own. His body hadn't been his own when Stacy and Cuddy had gone against his wishes during his infarction and his mind wasn't his own now. Wilson had had him committed so even his right to choose the direction of his life was no longer his. He was powerless, a state of being that terrified him. It reminded him too much of his growing up.

The Safe Room and the straitjacket had been more than enough helplessness to last him a lifetime. He'd thought that he literally was going to die. They had bound him up so he couldn't do a single thing to protect or care for himself and then had thrown him into a locked room and forgot about him for an entire day. And where was his 'best friend' been during all of that? Probably at home with the Harpy, that's where. He'd shown up twenty-four hours too late to rescue him from the humiliation and degradation. House knew he faced months if not years of nightmares from that. There had been a time when the oncologist wouldn't have left his side during a medical crisis, just as the diagnostician wouldn't have left his. House would still move heaven and earth to be there for Wilson should anything serious happen to him and he ended up in the hospital; that wasn't true of his friend anymore. As House was transferred from Unit 77 to unit 76, the intermediate care ward, Wilson had remained with him and told him that he would be keeping watch to make certain that the diagnostician was being treated properly. That vigil had lasted all of an hour at which time Wilson was paged. He went to the nursing station to use the phone and when he returned he apologized profusely but had to go because Sam had forgotten a few things at the loft and needed him to go open it up so she could move the rest of her stuff out.

Wilson hadn't returned. Apparently it took hours to drive home, open a door, help his ex-girlfriend/ex-wife carry a couple of boxes down to her car, run back upstairs, close and lock the front door and then drive back to PPTH. Nine hours later the older man was alone yet again. Wilson and Sam must have had one final romp before their final farewells. How very typical!

House finished dressing himself in street clothes brought to him from his apartment by Dr. Chase; technically he was still a prisoner—oops, er, patient—but he was allowed to walk through the halls of the hospital towards the ER with some dignity. Once he reached the ER he'd be loaded into an ambulance for the forty-five minute drive to Middleton and Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital, or, as House liked to call it, Hell. Before running off to do Sam's bidding Wilson had offered to drive House to Mayfield himself, but the older man had told him no in terms that weren't as polite as Wilson would have liked. He heard a knock on the door of his hospital room; the rooms in psychiatry, ironically, were not made of glass like everywhere else in the hospital. He couldn't just look up and see who it was.

"Go away!" House said grumpily. Of course, the person on the other side didn't pay him any heed—why would he or she? When did he have any say over what happened around and to him?

The door opened slowly and a head peeked around cautiously.

_Speak of the devil…._ House thought with a mental shake of his head.

"Are you decent?" James Wilson asked.

"Am I ever?" the diagnostician sniped. The door opened the rest of the way to admit the oncologist.

"Wow," House said bitterly, "Sam must have left a lot of boxes behind."

Wilson sighed and looked almost sheepish. Almost.

"We got to talking," the younger man admitted.

"And one thing led to another and you didn't need to move the stuff she left behind after all," the older man finished for him.

"No," Wilson denied. "She's not moving back in. I told you, she and I are through. We just decided to separate on better terms than we had, that's all."

House looked at the other man skeptically. "After the obligatory break-up sex, of course."

When Wilson didn't reply but looked sheepishly down at his shoes and rubbed the back of his neck, House knew he had hit the bull's eye on that one. Not that he could blame him, he supposed. Sex was sex—if there was the opportunity, Wilson would have been a fool not to take it. That didn't make House feel any better about it, though. _**I'm**_ _going away_, the diagnostician thought bitterly, _but Wilson isn't about to offer to have sex with __**me**__._

"House," the other man said, "I need to talk with you about last Tuesday, about what was said, about your being in love with me—"

"I never said that I was in love with you," House told him, having to look away from those soft, beautiful brown eyes just to be able to say it. He knew he was betraying with his face that he was lying.

"Not in so many words," Wilson agreed, "but that was definitely the intent, wasn't it?"

"What difference does it make?" was the sharp response. "We both know you don't reciprocate so rather than completely humiliate me today, just drop it!"

"We're not going to drop this!" the younger man insisted his hands moving to his hips. "I deserve the chance to respond to that!"

"I'm not interested," House told him, looking down at a spot on the floor.

Wilson reached out and grabbed his shoulders and House looked up at him, frowning with a mixture of surprise and anger. He couldn't bring himself to pull away, however.

"I…I'm in love with you, too," Wilson whispered, searching House's face for a hint of what the older man was thinking. He slowly stepped closer to the older man until their bodies were nearly touching and their faces were only a couple of inches apart. House made no effort to back away, but he didn't move closer, either. His heart began to beat rapidly and the sound of his blood rushing through his body deafened him to everything else. Wilson's breath was hot on his face and though he was afraid and uncertain, all House wanted to do was lean forward and kiss him. He didn't, waiting to see if Wilson legitimately meant what he had said. His electric blue eyes couldn't help but fix on the soft brown ones staring back at him.

"What are you doing?" he asked his younger friend.

Wilson wrapped his right arm around House's waist, pulling him closer as his left hand reached up to rest on the base of House's skull.

"Isn't it obvious?" the oncologist whispered even more softly than before. "I'm doing something I should have done a long time ago."

"Are you certain you want to do-?" the older man began to ask but he was silenced by Wilson's lips brushing his and then gently kissing them. His lips were smooth, soft, warm and wonderful. House tried to stop himself from responding, but he'd waited so long for this moment that he didn't have the heart to deny it now that it had arrived. He grabbed his friend's lower lip between both of his and sucked on it lightly before letting it go and grasping for another round. Wilson's tongue gently caressed his lower lip and in response he opened his mouth just enough to allow the other man's tongue access. Slowly and sensuously Wilson's tongue began to map out House's mouth, bringing a soft groan to escape from deep inside of the older man.

House's stomach felt like it was filled with fluttering butterflies and his heart felt like it was about to burst. Every inch of his body yearned to be in contact with his friend's. He had imagined their first kiss to be one fueled by animalistic passion, hard, hungry, and violent. This, he decided, was so much better. Yet, in the midst of this he saw the faces of Wilson's three ex-wives and Amber kissing the younger man just he was now, as well as the image of Wilson and Sam screwing in farewell and it brought him back to reality rather harshly. He abruptly pulled away from the kiss and Wilson's embrace. All of his hurt and anger quickly replaced the peacefulness and love that had been there just a moment before.

Wilson looked at House with an expression of dismay, his arms still extended towards him. "Wha—what's wrong?" he asked, trying to close the gap between them again but House side-stepped him, swallowing hard and forcing away the urge to allow himself to be caught again. He had to find the wall of his heart and erect it again, closing the gates before there was any chance of it being injured again.

The diagnostician just stared at the younger man in silence. Why now? Why couldn't he have said that before Sam, before rejecting him and kicking him out, before the crane disaster, before he had slit his wrists and tried to jump off of the hospital roof? Why couldn't he have kissed him before he had lost all hope of something like this lasting. Was this simply a reaction to his attempts to kill himself? Did the younger man think that by telling him this the older would cease in his attempts to commit suicide? It certainly couldn't be true, especially not after what had happened the past month.

Before House could find his voice, his nurse poked her head into the room and Wilson dropped his arms.

"It's time," she said before popping back out.

The diagnostician moved to grab the suitcase that rested on the floor next to the bed. Chase had gone to his boss' apartment and packed it with a few of the essentials House would need. Since they didn't know how long House would be in Mayfield this time around, anything that might have been missed could be brought up to the hospital for him another time. The diagnostician had a feeling he was going to be there a long time—that is, unless he found a way to escape or kill himself. Wilson beat him to it, picking it up with the intention of carrying it for him.

"I can handle it," House told him, limping over with a spare cane that had also been brought from his apartment. He went to grab the suitcase but Wilson moved it.

"No," he told the older man, "I'll take it for you."

House sighed. "If you think that by lying about being in love with me, kissing me and carrying my suitcase for me you are absolved of all of the rotten things you've done to me lately, you are sorely mistaken! Now give me the damned case before I club you with my cane and take it from your unconscious hand!"

"I'm not lying!" the oncologist insisted, appearing both stunned and hurt. "It's the truth! It took me a long time to admit it, but I do love you!"

"Until another pussy comes along," House spat, hoping to injure with his words, to make the other man hurt like he had been hurting for so long. "I know the pattern all too well. Now give me the goddamned suitcase!"

"House-!"

"_Now!_"

He was expecting another argument and some kind of defensive response from Wilson; when it didn't come, it caught him by surprise. Wilson simply handed over the suitcase without a word.

House looked at him suspiciously. "That was too easy. What gives?"

Shrugging, the oncologist replied sadly, "I don't want to argue with you, that's all. Maybe…maybe after some therapy, you'll realize that I mean what I say. Come on, the ambulance is waiting for you."

Taking the lead, the younger man walked out of the room. House sighed heavily and followed him out. Waiting in the common area was House's nurse and two security guards. They walked up to him, the guards flanking the diagnostician on both sides.

"Dr. House, it's time. We'll be escorting you to the ambulance," the nurse explained to him. "I would like to do this without having to restrain or sedate you. If you cooperate then we'll give you the dignity of leaving on your own two feet. If you give us difficulty then measures to ensure your safety as well as ours will be taken. Do you understand?"

House glared at her. What did she think he was, an idiot? He looked at each of the guards; House was nearly six-foot-three but both security guards stood taller than him and were considerably more solid. There was no way he was going to pick a fight with them. He was suicidal, not masochistic.

"I understand," he said meekly, earning a look from Wilson. His brown eyes squinted at him in suspicion, but the diagnostician chose to ignore him. All he wanted was to get this over a quickly and painlessly as possible. Escape really wasn't an option; even if he managed to lose the guards that were with him, there would be more waiting at all of the exits to stop him. If he didn't make it out of the hospital there would be a lockdown and a search conducted until he was located. If he did make it out of the hospital, where would he go by foot? It's not like he could move all that quickly with his ruined leg. Where could he hide? The police would be notified and he would become a hunted man. He couldn't think of a single person who wouldn't betray him to the cops if they saw him. The only logical step at that point was to behave—for now, at least.

The five of them—House, Wilson, the nurse with the pre-loaded syringe in her pocket and the two guards—headed towards the ambulance bay. Except for the fact that he was neither handcuffed nor shackled House felt like he was a dead man walking. The nurse was the executioner ready to give him the lethal injection and verify his death after it all was said and done. Wilson was his priest (what a laugh!) and the security guards were, well, they were his guards. He couldn't help but smirk at the gallows humor of it.

He may have been leaving under his own power, but everybody they passed along the way stopped to stare, knowing that this wasn't just another individual walking the halls of the hospital. There was something about this man that just wasn't quite right. Was he a criminal? No, just that lunatic House being shipped off to the loony bin where he belongs. Maybe this time they'll lock him up and throw away the key. It would be the best thing for everyone, really.

House looked sidelong at Wilson. The oncologist looked like he was about to lose his best friend. House knew that look; he saw it all the time, every time he saw his own reflection. Only, in reality, House had already lost him. He'd lost part of him after Amber; he'd lost the rest with Sam. The man walking with him was simply doing so for the appearance of being a loyal friend. They both knew the underlying truth between the two of them: Wilson lost all grasp of the concept of loyalty when pussy came around, and it just never stopped coming around. The man was a magnet for needy women, his favorite kind. House had waited and waited for this to change, for the younger man to realize that he didn't need the women when everything he needed was there in the diagnostician. How many years had he dreamt of the day when Wilson would be all his to share with, to care for, to tease, to annoy, and to make love to? Now he gave him this great revelation and the older man was supposed to believe it? No. It was too convenient (and too good) to be true. As much as it killed him inside to admit it, it looked like _that_ day would never be more than a dream. He didn't know how much longer he could hold out hope for what appeared to be a hopeless cause. Yet, how could he let go of the one thing that had kept him going through all of the pain and disappointment for years?

_But it's not keeping you going any longer_, he acknowledged to himself sadly. _It's too late. You're done._

The walk to the ambulance had felt like it had taken so long until he was in the bay, staring at the back of the vehicle; then it seemed like the time had passed far too quickly. Standing just outside the open double doors of the bus was one EMT. Another one sat inside the ambulance, waiting for House to board, and the diagnostician knew that the third, the driver, was already seated behind the steering wheel.

Everybody looked at House in anticipation. All he could do was sigh resignedly and move to climb into the back of the ambulance when Wilson's hand grabbed his arm, staying him. The older man looked back at the younger, frowning questioningly.

"I'll see you the first visitor's day you're allowed to see people," he told House. "When you're released, I want you to come back to the loft to live-permanently. It's your home as much as it is mine—I had no right to kick you out like I did."

"You did," House told him. "It's your place."

Wilson shook his head and frowned. "It's ours. It always has been—I just went temporarily insane and forgot that." In a whisper he added fervently. "I really do love you!"

Shaking his head and staring at the oncologist with cold blue eyes, House said, "You weren't insane. You knew exactly what you were doing; it's what you've always done. I am the most screwed up person in the world, but you come a close second. While I'm getting my head shrunk, you should be doing the same. Maybe then we'll both be able to figure out if we want this…fucked-up mess… to go on, 'cause right now I'm done."

House didn't bother waiting for a reaction or a reply. He simply turned his back on Wilson and managed to haul his crippled body up into the ambulance without help. He sat down on one of the bench seats that ran the length of the vehicle and stared at a spot on the opposite side until the EMT outside slammed the doors shut and then climbed into the passenger's seat in the cab.

He didn't see how crest-fallen Wilson appeared as the ambulance drove away. His own pain was too great. Everything he had just said was true, and that's what was breaking his heart.

This was the second time in less than a week that he rode in the back of an ambulance. For a second he saw a woman appear on the empty stretcher between the benches. She was covered in pulverized concrete, sweat and blood. She looked up at him with eyes that just a few minutes earlier were warm and alive but were now cold and dead. Those eyes accused him of betraying her, of lying to her, of letting her down, just like he'd let everybody else down his entire life.

House clamped his eyes closed, leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and hid his face in his hands. He tried to banish that memory from his mind but he knew that for the rest of his life that image would always be on the periphery of his consciousness, always ready to pop out of cover to torture him again and again and again. Hannah and Amber-the duo testified to his failure as a doctor and a human being. They were two ghosts that would haunt him to the bitter end.

Why couldn't he have been the one to die instead of them? What the hell did he have to do to die? Why did he always manage to survive when others much more worthy of life didn't? When would the madness end? Why couldn't he be allowed to just 'rest in peace' so that others could live in peace?

He hadn't been aware of his own sobbing until the EMT sitting opposite nudged his shoulder to get his attention. House looked up to see a tissue box being shoved at him. When he received the box and glanced at the EMT, the other man was busying himself with paperwork, appearing oblivious of him.

House took a couple of tissues and then set the box down. He dried his face and blew his nose. He would have died from humiliation but the other man in the back of that ambulance pretended not to notice beyond passing the tissues, obviously trying to give him a chance to save a bit of dignity. It was one of the first acts of unconditional kindness he had experienced in a very, very long time.

Leaning back, House closed his eyes, too weary to be awake and too tired to fall asleep.

**Monday, May 24, 2010; 12:58 P.M.**

Taking her seat next to Nolan, Dr. Olivia Hutton had just begun to relax when there was a knock on her mentor's office door. This would be here first time with her new patient. She would be working with Nolan in the treatment of this patient who, Nolan told her, would stretch her professionally as well as personally to the breaking point and back over the next month to two months of treatment. Nothing intrigued her more than a challenge. She crossed her well defined, long legs, settled into her seat and smoothed out her silver-grey pencil skirt that perfectly accented her pastel hibiscus-colored blouse.

Nolan crossed the distance from his desk to the door quickly and opened it to admit Dr. Gregory House and the orderly escorting him. Giving the orderly a nod, the senior attending psychiatrist at Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital sent him away and shut the door behind the patient. She noticed the brief angry glare House had given the African-American therapist upon entering and then the look of mild surprise when he saw her. His expression changed to one she frequently saw from men, colleagues, patients and strangers alike—the one that made her feel like a lamb thrown into the wolf's lair.

"It's good to see you again, Greg," Nolan told him as he returned to his chair next to Hutton's around a small coffee table. "Have a seat."

The middle aged man looked for a moment like he was going to stay standing where he was before he looked Hutton in the eye curiously and slowly moved to the third chair around the table. She noticed his limp and the unusual way he used his cane, carrying it in the hand on the same side of his body as his bad leg. She watched as he carefully lowered himself into the chair and hung his cane on the back of the seat.

As was her way with every new person she met, she carefully appraised him, not bothering with the pretense of hiding what she was doing. Nolan had told her that this patient was a genuine genius who would of course know that she would be evaluating him during this introductory session, so she wasn't about to insult his intelligence by trying to hide what she was doing from him. He appeared to be in his fifties and his hair was quite short, a pretty much even mix of chestnut brown and grey; it didn't appear to have been shorn yet into the institutionalized buzz cut she'd noticed most of the male patients sporting. He had a long, angular face that wasn't movie-star stunning but rather was handsome in an unassuming way. His striking eyes were a brilliant azure blue that were soft and expressive. He wore three days growth of beard giving him that Eighties devil may care look that went well with the cynical smirk he currently wore as he watched her watch him. He had a tall, lean frame but his upper body was actually quite muscular and well defined. His left leg looked strong and more muscular than his right, undoubtedly due to the fact that his left had to work harder to compensate for what his right leg couldn't do. She had to admit that as far as appearances were concerned he could make even the ugly hospital garb look good. There was something about the expression in his eyes, though. They held nothing of the confidence and swagger that his cocky smirk tried to communicate; no, they spoke of deep hurt, fear and uncertainty. They were the desperate eyes of a man tired of life.

And of course, there were the heavy dressings on both of his arms which covered the evidence of his first suicide attempt from the week before.

"This is a colleague I have called in to consult in your treatment," Nolan told when House remain silent and directed his angry glare at him. "Dr. Olivia Hutton, this is Dr. Gregory House. Greg, Dr. Hutton."

"Decided the best way to treat me was by dangling a sexy morsel in front of me, did you?" House said sharply, bitterness fuelling his sarcasm. His words were intended to shock her, to get a rise out of her so he could evaluate her response.

Hutton found it amusing, and smiled accordingly. "Despite how you intended it," she told him lightly, "I'll take that as a compliment. Nobody is going to bribe you, but we are here to get you past your anger into something healthier."

He looked at her and then leered as his eyes moved up and down her body. She knew it wasn't sexual, although there was an element of that there; no, this was an act of intimidation. He was making it clear that he was objectifying her, dominating her, thus nullifying her authority in his own mind. What he didn't realize was she wasn't one to be easily intimidated.

"Too bad," he told her without regret, returning his gaze to Nolan. "I thought I fired you."

"You did," Nolan agreed, nodding. "In fact, I owe you an apology for the way I behaved last session. I was angry, judgmental and far from behaving professionally. I had personal issues that I allowed to interfere with my professional conduct, which is unacceptable. I apologize for that."

"I don't care," the diagnostician told him frankly. "You're still fired."

Nolan smiled slightly, but Hutton saw a hint of something in the older psychiatrist's eyes that wasn't consistent with the rest of his face.

"I was re-hired by your medical proxy," he said to him calmly. "Presently, I don't believe you're capable of making rational decisions concerning your health."

"So you think I'm crazy?" House snapped, barely restraining his anger. "Nice."

"Suicide is an irrational act," Nolan commented. "Not only did you try once to end your own life but twice."

"So I'm doubly crazy," the patient taunted, unable to restrain his hostility any longer. Hutton noted that his nerves were drawn as taut as violin strings. His emotions bubbled so closely to the surface that the slightest stimulus had the potential of causing them all to bubble over the top and everywhere. He looked to Hutton again. "You concur with him?"

She smiled at his blatant attempt to divide and conquer. He was, indeed, going to be an interesting patient—exactly the kind she thrived on.

"The label of crazy is one you placed on yourself," she pointed out, cocking her head slightly. "Dr. Nolan simply commented that what you did—your behavior—was irrational. One's actions do not define the individual entirely. I believe _you_ think that you're crazy, and you're projecting that onto Dr. Nolan. You know yourself that you are not thinking rationally right now, but you don't want to admit that to yourself—so you put it on him. But, hey, that's just my humble opinion."

"You're an idiot," he told her dismissively, looking away.

"And you're projecting again," she said, still smiling in amusement.

She saw the corner of his mouth twitch but he continued to pretend that she didn't exist.

Nolan sighed and then jumped in quickly. "I asked Dr. Hutton to consult knowing that you've lost confidence in me as a therapist, Greg. There's no hard feelings—I agree that a change in perspective might be best for you. You've been entered into a six-week intensive therapy program. You'll be meeting one on one with a therapist six days a week, Sunday being the exception. Monday and Wednesday mornings you and I will meet, and those sessions will be directed towards your interactions with other patients and staff here at Mayfield, as well as administrative matters and the maintenance of your medication protocol. Tuesday, Thursday and Friday mornings you'll be meeting with Dr. Hutton. Friday afternoons there will be a half-hour session with both of us. Saturday mornings you'll meet with an occupational therapist. Also, you will be expected to attend all group therapy sessions and physiotherapy Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. We'll be bringing in a pain management expert weekly.

"You'll return to the general ward, and you're familiar with the other procedures and expectations around here. Later today you'll be visited by a G.P. and undergo a physical. I heard about your argument with the nurses over their desire to cut your hair. I told them I wasn't concerned that you were infested with lice so as long as you maintain an acceptable level of personal hygiene they'll leave you alone about that. You'll have a private room this time because of your reoccurring bouts of insomnia. You can thank Dr. Hutton for that one. However, as a result you will be required to participate in all interpersonal social events so you don't hide in your room like a hermit.

"Greg, you know how it works. We can't force you to get better, but you don't leave here until both Dr. Hutton and I agree you're ready. This isn't a voluntary admission this time; you cannot check out anytime you wish. If you want out, you have to cooperate and begin to heal. That won't be easy, but you already know that. How far you get here is up to you. Any questions?"

House glared at him for a long moment, his long-fingered hands gripping the armrests of his chair tightly. "A demand," he said at last, his baritone voice hard and unyielding. "I want access to the piano in the common area."

Hutton looked to Nolan for his response. The older psychiatrist looked at her questioningly. She nodded almost imperceptibly and then he looked back at the patient.

"The piano can be made available to you during free time in the evenings so long as you don't make yourself a pain in the ass for the staff," Nolan told him, smiling slightly. "Cause trouble and the privilege will be revoked. Oh, one more thing. Your first Visiting day will be in two weeks, barring anything unforeseen. You can think about who you want to include on your list of permitted visitors and let the charge nurse know."

"That's easy," House told him. "I don't want anybody."

"No one?" Hutton asked, raising an eyebrow. "Not even family?"

"No one," he replied curtly.

Hutton made a mental note of that and filed it away for later use.

"Well, then," Nolan said, rising smoothly to his feet. "I have a meeting to attend. For the rest of today's session I'll leave you to become better acquainted with Dr. Hutton. Be nice."

"Not likely," House scoffed defiantly as Nolan grabbed a file folder from off of his desk and then headed for the door.

Nolan paused at the door. "I wasn't talking to _you_," he said and then left.


	7. Chapter 7 Part 1 Ch 6

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** Just a thought: Persuasion comes in many forms. Don't forget to tell me what you think! By the way, I will be updating "At The Spectra" next!

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part One: The Dying Time**

**Chapter Six: Monday, May 24, 2010; 1:19 P.M.**

Hutton moved gracefully to the chair Nolan had vacated which was directly across from House's. He watched admiringly as she crossed her long, muscular but not muscle-bound legs again. He was impressed with what he saw, and not simply because she had a body a guy would love to get to know in detail, although it certainly didn't hurt. She definitely dressed to accentuate her best features but unlike a certain Dean of Medicine he knew, Hutton seemed to understand the difference between teasing and outright flaunting. Her face was heart-shaped and pretty in that girl-next door quality. Inquisitive hazel-green eyes surrounded by a dark fringe of impossibly long eyelashes and subtly arched eyebrows peered at him. A smattering of small dark freckles crossed the bridge of her nose and a modest, natural beauty mark dotted her upper lip on the right side of her face lining up just under the outer edge of her nostril. Lips that looked like they belonged on a porcelain doll graced her lower face, pink and plump. She couldn't have been more than thirty-five but she carried herself with the confidence of a woman more mature than that; all of that and great breasts, too.

"So how would you like to be called," she asked, breaking the silence. "'Dr. House'? 'Gregory'? 'Greg'? 'Hey you'?"

"I don't care," he told her coolly, looking away.

"Okay," she replied with a smile. "I'll call you _Dr. Demento_. I've always wanted to call one of my patients that."

In spite of himself, an amused smirk escaped to his lips. "House. Nearly everybody calls me that."

"Does that include close friends and family, or just people outside of that immediate circle?" Hutton asked.

"Pretty much everybody. I don't have any friends." He told her, growing bored with this conversation very quickly. "I refer to myself as House around others."

"Do you always identify yourself by your last name?" she asked, sitting back in her seat casually.

"Usually," he replied with a half-shrug. "My mother calls me Gregory, but she's the only one who does."

"What about your father?" she asked. "What did he call you?"

Her use of the verb form in the past tense caught his attention. "You've read my file."

"Of course I did," she agreed amicably. "Don't you read your patients' files before you treat them?"

"Usually," House admitted. "Though most patient histories and files lie. People rarely volunteer the truth on their admission forms."

She nodded knowingly. "Very true. Myself, I read patient histories with a grain of salt. That which can be easily verified I accept as true. The rest I try to validate by speaking to the source. It's up to you, but most of my patients call me Olivia. I like my name and am narcissistic enough to want to hear it as frequently as possible."

House shrugged. "Whatever."

Hutton nodded, moving on quickly, "So, what did your father call you?"

"I talk about him as little as possible," House told her. "But…he was fond of calling me 'Boy'. 'Trouble-maker', 'smart-ass', 'genius', always in a derogatory sense, but 'boy' was what he predominantly called me. Once I had left home, which was as fucking soon as I had been able, he called me 'Greg' and on the very rare occasion, 'Son'."

"I like the name Gregory," Hutton told him. "It's a very old fashioned name, very noble and distinguished. Is your mother the only one _allowed_ to use it?"

"No," he answered with a sigh. He rubbed absently at his leg. It was beginning to ache worse now than it had all day. "If you want to call me Gregory, call me Gregory. I really couldn't care less. I don't see what difference it makes—it's just a name. A set of sounds people articulate when referring to me or trying to get my attention."

"I disagree," she told him, looking at him contemplatively. "We don't get to choose what our parents name us, although as adults we do have the freedom to change our names if we so choose. Most people don't change their names because even if they don't particularly care for them, they have become an integral part of their personhood, of their identity. How we view our name and even the name we choose to be called by as adults is highly indicative of whom we are as a whole person and of our place in our communities, be they family, work, or social/peer groups. That's also why someone will feel comfortable being called one name by one person or group of persons but will be uncomfortable if called by the same name by and around another person or group of persons. What you are called by others and what is acceptable to you to be called by those people is important…it helps define you in your own mind and in the minds of others.

"For example, I have no problem with you calling me 'Olivia' in this doctor-patient construct we have but if you were to call me 'Liv' I would be uncomfortable with that because I only like being called that by close friends and family, and you and I have not known each other long enough nor are in the proper construct to be considered close friends or family. It's really a matter of boundaries. All I'm asking is what your boundaries are for your name and your personhood so I can respect them enough not to cross them. It's really _very_ relevant and important. Do you have boundaries or set lines in the sand over which people are not allowed to cross, sometimes not even you?"

"I," House started and then stopped for a moment, actually considering the question for a few moments. Did he have boundaries? Did he have distinct lines set between himself and others? He knew the boundaries that others in his life had set for themselves and over which he intentionally crossed for a variety of reasons, personal amusement being among them. As for himself, he had very few. He didn't like to be touched by every Tom, Dick or Harry—basically only Wilson and Cuddy got away with touching him for more than a brief moment without facing his wrath, and even they knew better than abuse the privilege or touch him when he wasn't expecting it. Everyone else had to have a damned good reason and his expressed permission—everyone, except, perhaps, Wilson; he was in a category all his own. He didn't like to be treated like a cripple even though he called himself one frequently. He hated having someone assume he needed help and do things for him unsolicited. If he needed help, he would ask for it—he expected to be asked before any action was taken. Nobody touched Bal-ly. His fuzzy Lacrosse ball was his alone to manipulate, bounce, juggle and throw. He hadn't set a permanent line in the sand concerning his name, but it was generally understood that he wanted to be called by his surname and his first name was restricted to certain people only.

"I have a few," House told the psychiatrist. "My name is House. My first name isn't for everybody. It's for people I trust."

Hutton nodded, appearing to understand. "House it is, then. I hope that eventually I'll earn your trust. I'm glad that you set that boundary. I know that most of the staff here automatically calls the patients by their first names without asking them if that's alright. I try not to make that mistake. Like I said—a person's name is a very important thing. I want to establish with you right now a couple of things so that you understand my boundaries; I have every intention of respecting yours unless you claim something as a boundary that will only end up causing you harm. I expect the same respect from you. I will not stand for personal attacks, verbal and otherwise, and I will not verbally attack you. I will be very clear with you when I think you've crossed the line and I will expect you to abide by that. Minor flirting is harmless but I will not stand for offensive language, names or suggestions that constitute sexual harassment. You will not receive that from me and I expect you to refrain from any of that around me. Physical contact between us will be strongly discouraged and any desire to make contact must be requested and the answer respected and abided by.

"I expect you to attend all scheduled sessions and be ready to work. I'm here to help you help yourself; if you fail to show up or do any homework I give you to do there will be consequences, namely the removal of privileges. When we meet you will talk, you will work with and cooperate with me. I expect you to be on time. Tardiness is simply a sign of disrespect. I understand that things happen and sometimes it may be unavoidable for either one of us to be on time on occasion. There is excusable lateness and inexcusable tardiness. Whatever we say in our sessions is strictly confidential and will not be shared with a third party, other than Dr. Nolan who is also your therapist, without expressed permission. That goes both ways. It's a matter of establishing and keeping trust. What do you think of what I just told you, House?"

"Not much," he lied, pretending to be disinterested and bored. In truth, he couldn't deny that what she had set forth was, for the most part, quite reasonable; he didn't want her to know that though. He had no interest in participating in therapy. He'd been there and done that and was no better for it than before he had tried. He knew that there was no fixing him and that his situation was hopeless no matter what anyone else believed. She wasn't living his life twenty-four-seven so she had no idea. He was here against his will. They could drag him to the water, but they couldn't make him drink. He was simply biding his time for the opportunity to arrive to either escape the hospital or commit suicide while here. That was all.

He pretended not to notice the little smirk she offered him.

"So tell me about yourself," Hutton instructed him. "I've perused your file but I haven't read Dr. Nolan's notes in depth. I prefer to form my own first impressions about people."

House remained silent. He wondered how persistent she was. Nolan had been tenacious almost to a fault and usually it was only his desire to shut the psychiatrist up that led him to talk about his issues with someone he barely knew. He was hoping that she would be easier to discourage, to control.

"Let me guess," she said, sitting forward in her seat now and resting her elbows on her knees, "and this is just a guess-you resent the fact that you've been committed against your will so you have no intention of cooperating with me or anyone else here. You hope that by doing so we'll all get fed up and give up on you. This tactic has worked very well for you in the past and you expect it to work just as well here and now. Am I anywhere close to the truth?"

Again House refused to acknowledge her, although he couldn't help but admire how close to the target she was. Hutton was perceptive; that did not bode well for him as far as resistance and trickery was concerned.

"Unless you tell me otherwise, I'm going to assume that what I say is correct," the female psychiatrist told him evenly. She didn't appear the least bit discouraged. "That tactic won't work well with me. I'm very difficult to discourage; my boss back at the hospital where I'm on staff calls me a terrier because I'm tenacious and brave far beyond what appearances would at first lead someone to believe. I choose to ignore the fact that he was backhandedly calling me a bitch. Not that I can't be when I need to be."

Again, silence—but House couldn't help but listen to what she was saying. Truly ignoring her was difficult to do.

"Okay, if you won't tell me about you, then I'm going to tell you about me," she informed him, sighing. "As I told you, I'm truly narcissistic. My full name is Maria Olivia Pivarro-Hutton, M.D. I'm forty, widowed, with two children, Stephania who is fifteen going on twenty-five and and David, ten, whose life ambition is to become a professional wrestler—God help us all! I come from a small working class family. I was born and raised in Pittsburg and attended Penn State before going to Medical school at Princeton. I completed my residency in Internal Medicine and was in my third year of a fellowship in vascular surgery when I was struck by a car in the hospital parking lot. My left hand was severed from my arm at the wrist, see?" She pulled back the sleeve of her blouse to show where her prosthetic hand joined her arm. In spite of himself, House glanced briefly at her hand, hoping she didn't notice.

"At first I had one of those hideous claws. My husband tried to overlook it, but at some point he decided he couldn't handle seeing me in constant pain and making love with Captain Hook so he stopped looking at me and touching me. I entered a deep depression; I had lost the chance of ever seeing my dream career come true, I was losing my husband and everybody I knew began to treat me differently than they did when I was whole. They stopped excepting my calls to get together for coffee, or to join me for a run. The book club I was a part of began to meet in a different location—but failed to tell me where they had moved to. I was lectured constantly about my use of Oxycontin for the chronic nerve pain I had; I was told that most of the pain was a result of my depression and that I was using the pain meds just to get high.

"I was in pain, constant, horrible pain. It pissed me off to have people tell me I wasn't, like their nervous system was plugged into mine somehow so they just knew. And yes, as my life began to fall apart I did self-medicate my emotional pain along with my physical. If I was numb from the meds then it didn't bother me that my husband was sleeping in the spare bedroom when he wasn't out sleeping with his law partner, that all of my family and friends seemed to just disappear or look down on me, and that my dreams seemed to have been crushed. Wake up, House! I'm not done with my story—you know if you want to shut me up all you have to do is talk!"

She paused for a moment. House quickly checked her expression and seeing a hint of a smile realized she wasn't angry or offended. He hadn't gone to sleep on her—quite the contrary; he'd been listening with intense interest, amazed by how open she was willing to be to a stranger and a patient and how similar her story was to his in many ways. It was clearly obvious now why Nolan had called her in to consult on his therapy. He didn't bite at her bait not only because he wasn't going to cooperate but also because he was interested in hearing what more she had to say, though he would never admit it.

"Okay," Hutton said, shaking her head, "suit yourself, but don't say I didn't warn you! What turned my life around was nearly killing my three year old daughter while flying high. I nearly ran over her with my car. If my husband hadn't been there at the time, I probably would have killed her—not on purpose, just because I barely knew my own name, I was so out of it. My husband had me committed to a residential rehab center in California. I was there for two months of inpatient treatment. Then I was sent home, back into the mix, but now I wasn't just a handless freak and horrible mother, I was also a drug addict. That did wonders for my home and social lives, I can tell you. I went eight months sober until one day I came home from a normal day of grocery shopping and dropping Stephania off at her grandparents for a visit to dig out my super secret stash of Oxy from my flower garden and down a bottle of thirty tabs with a fifth of gin, crawl into bed and wait to die. Can you say 'return to the loony bin' boys and girls?

"My husband came home from work to find Stephania wasn't home yet and he found me lying in the bed, dead. Well, technically dead. My heart had stopped and later it was decided that I had been clinically dead for at least three minutes before Marcus was able to get my heart started again by CPR. After I recovered physically I was kept in the hospital psych ward on suicide watch. While there I became the patient of a chief attending psychiatrist we both know fairly well."

House looked at her now, his eyes widening in genuine interest. "You had Nolan as your therapist? _Here_?"

"No, not here," she told him, shaking her head and smiling wryly. "He was still working at a hospital in Philly at the time. I thought he was the most arrogant son of a bitch I had ever met in my life. Do you know, at one of our sessions early in my treatment I refused to talk about something he wanted us to discuss and in response he made me sit there for twenty minutes, until our hour was up, while he turned on his stereo and listened to a new Blues CD he'd bought? I was so infuriated that I was ready to pick up that stereo and club him over the head with it. When I demanded to know why he was acting like such a prick he told me that if I wanted to piss away my opportunity to get healthy and actually live a better life than the one I had before my injury that was my choice but he wasn't about to walk away on me and desert me like everyone else in my life had, so he'd be listening to his music and waiting for me until I was ready to care enough about myself to allow him to help me. Until I was prepared to do that, there was nothing he could do but back off and wait. Then he gave me an introductory course in the Blues in America."

"I've had…a similar experience with him," the diagnostician told her quietly, thoughtfully. "Except, I didn't bother to find out exactly what it was he was trying to tell me."

"Well, Darryl can be overwhelmingly arrogant sometimes," Hutton told him, "but if he's willing to take the time to piss you off and push you to the point of murderous rage, it means he really does care about you beyond what he's professionally required. I don't know about you, House, and what it takes to motivate you, but it took having him piss me off that way to wake me up, stop wallowing in self-pity, and start acting like a survivor rather than a victim. Once I made that paradigm shift, things began to make sense. Now, I'm not going to try to tell you that life has been nothing but sweet smelling roses ever since; even rose gardens have to be fertilized with shit from time to time, after all. But I was able to stay off of the drugs, prove to my husband that I could be trusted again, and carry on. I was able to replace the hook with this mannequin hand which is at least a little more esthetically pleasing if not any more useful.

"I decided to enter psychiatry myself because the pay was good and having a prosthetic hand wasn't much of a hindrance. I completed a three year fellowship with Nolan and then moved on to work in the same department at that small private hospital just outside of Philly. In early 2001 I gave birth to David; he was born with a hole in his heart that had to be repaired surgically two days after he was born, but he's perfectly healthy now. When David was three and Stephania was nine, my husband Marcus was carjacked by one of his former clients hopped up on Meth at the time and shot three times in the face. He survived the ambulance trip to the hospital but died on the operating table. That was May twenty-fourth, two-thousand-four."

House's eyes were drawn to hers by the significance of the date. Her hazels were sad in spite of the small smile on her face. He sighed silently, having no idea what to say to that. He never knew what to say in situations like that, so he said nothing and just nodded once to show his acknowledgement.

"We both know why Darryl asked me, of all people, to consult on your particular case," she said shrugging. "But there's no way in hell I'm going to assume I understand where you're at because everybody's situation is different and there's no way I can possibly know what you're feeling. I won't insult you by claiming to. And I'm not going to pity you and make things easier on you because of your disability. I loathe political correctness and I'm merciless when I see someone trying to pull a fast one on me or worse, on _himself_. I'll promise you this—I'm in this for the long haul. I'm committed to helping you help yourself for however long it takes. Days, months—even years—and I'm not about to stand by and allow you to give up on yourself; that's not a lie."

"Why the fuck would you want to do that?" House demanded angrily. "You don't know me—why would you promise me that kind of bullshit?"

Hutton was silent for a moment. Her smile disappeared and she stared him in the eyes. He saw nothing but raw honesty in them when she answered. "Because it's time somebody stood behind you no matter what, House; you're _worth_ it. When I looked in your file, I didn't see a worthless waste of skin that had no further reason to live. I saw someone who deserves to have someone believe in him and care for him—someone who won't turn her back on him the moment some other distraction comes around. You've been surrounded by some pretty shitty people your entire life who've let you down when you needed them the most. You can be pissed at me for insulting your friends and family, but I just call them as I see them. If I had to guess, I'd say you've probably blamed yourself for the rotten way you've been treated, haven't you? Well, if so, you'd be wrong. I haven't seen one thing in that file or here today to justify the poor treatment you've received. I had Nolan there for me when nobody else would acknowledge me. Who do _you_ have right now that you know beyond all doubt would be there for you no matter what if you needed him or her? Hmm? _Who_?"

The question hung in the air, and House looked away, feeling the sharp pain of loneliness and rejection stab him anew, just as strongly as it had a week before, sitting all alone in his bathroom with the mirror shard resting against the flesh of his arm. He wanted to believe that Wilson would be there no matter what—except, he hasn't been.

"No one," he murmured in self-loathing.

"Wrong!" Hutton told him sharply, causing him to look back at her. "You've got _me_! For as long as you need me or until you murder me, whichever comes first. _Count on it_!"

Once again he was left speechless, unable to figure her out. What was her angle? What did she have to gain by promising him this? How could he trust her to keep her word—he didn't even know her (Chances are, once she got to know him, those words would be forgotten and she'd abandon him too).

Except, she had just told him about herself, hadn't she? She was the first therapist he had ever heard of who opened herself up and revealed so much personal information about herself to a patient. It was unheard of for a doctor to do such a thing. It bordered on the unethical if not the insane. Unable to come up with a response, he simply stared at her in bewilderment for a few moments.

A question occurred to him. "Do you do this for all of your patients?" he demanded.

"Nope. Just my blue-eyed physician patients," she told him straight-faced. "I'm superficial and selective about who I give a damn about."

House smirked at that.

"I didn't bring my IPod along with me today, but I've got some Junior Parker, Blind Willie Johnson and Ruth Brown that will make you a lover of the Blues if you're not one already," she said after a few minutes of silence, "but I'd rather listen to that with you outside of our session time and spend this time here helping you find that reason to live again. It's there—you just have to know where and how to look. It's simply not your time to die, House!

"Or," she said with a sigh, "I could tell you about everything that happened when my Great-Aunt Anna went in for her bunion surgery last year-."

"Stop!" House finally and wearily said at last. "If you don't want me to kill myself, for God's sake hold the bunions!"

Hutton sat back in her seat again. He could tell by the look in her eye that she knew she had him where she wanted him. Damnit, she was good!

"Okay, then," the psychiatrist said with her smile returning, "You know what you've got to do to shut me up. We've got ten minutes left-tell me about the fascinating and unique person who is Dr. Gregory House."

He glared at her for a moment before sighing. "On one condition."

"And that is?"

"From here on out everything is back and forth, quid pro quo," he told her with a devious smirk pulling on his lips. "For every question you get to ask, I get to ask one of my own. Honest answers both ways, no exceptions. I get to ask whatever question I want, no restrictions. I get as much blackmail material on you as you do on me. If you want me to trust you, this is the only way there's going to be a ghost of a chance of that happening."

Hutton laughed and it was a hearty, robust laugh for a woman, House noted. Not masculine, just uninhibited.

"Are you psychic, House?" she asked him, looking very pleased with herself. "That's exactly what I had in mind!"


	8. Chapter 8 Part 1 Ch 7

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** Sometimes it seems easier not to allow yourself to look forward to anything good, as we shall see House ponder. Don't forget to tell me what you think!

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part One: The Dying Time**

**Chapter Seven: Tuesday, May 25, 2010; 7:30 A.M.**

House growled when he felt a hand on his shoulder gently shake him to wake him up. He'd only managed to fall into an actual sleep sometime around four-thirty in the morning due to the spinning of his endless thoughts and the ache in his leg and lower abdomen. The lumpy hospital bed hadn't helped. He just wasn't ready to get up and face another rotten day. He pulled the blankets up around his ears and refused to acknowledge whoever it was trying to get him up. When the hand kept shaking he lost his temper.

"Get lost!" he growled. "I don't want breakfast!"

"Good," came the familiar voice, "because we're going for a run first."

Opening one eye, House frowned. Did she say _run_? Slowly he rolled over onto his back and stared up at his tormentor. Smiling hazel eyes looked down at him.

"Let me guess," he mumbled, still half-asleep. "You pissed Nolan off and he demoted you to the serfdom of nursing."

"Not quite," Olivia Hutton told him. "I'm still a member of the medical nobility, I assure you. Now get up and get dressed, then meet me out in the corridor in ten minutes." She was holding a small paper cup with his morning pain killer—ibuprofen, no doubt—a small Dixie cup of water and a package of plastic-wrapped digestive cookies. She set them onto the night stand beside his bed.

The psychiatrist turned and walked out of his room. She wore a light blue jacket and jogging shorts, with short white sport socks and expensive running shoes on her feet. Her raven hair was pulled up in a messy ponytail high on her head and a white sweatband crossed her brow. She had incredible legs and a tight ass. It certainly wasn't the most unpleasant sight he'd seen first thing in the morning.

The diagnostician was baffled. What the hell was she doing waking him up so early in the morning when that was the job of his nurse and his session with her wasn't scheduled until ten? He didn't like this. She was going to end up being a thorn in his side, he knew. House tried to go back to sleep just to make a point but knew he wouldn't be able to. With an annoyed groan, he flung back the covers to expose himself wearing a t-shirt and boxer shorts instead of the scratchy hospital issue pajamas his evening nurse had tried to force him to put on. After a few minutes of yelling on his behalf she had given up, allowing him to sleep in what he wanted so long as he was decently covered and agreed to put on the robe when he walked around outside his room to the communal bathroom and back.

It took him a minute or two to summon the energy to try to sit up. As expected, his ruined leg protested nastily as having to move and function. The muscles left in his right thigh always stiffened up overnight from lack of use and the cramping made getting up an ordeal to endure. She wanted him dress and where in ten minutes? He'd be lucky if he'd be able to climb out of bed in ten minutes. Gradually he managed to sit up, it hurting him the most in his groin and abdomen. The G.P. he saw the day before had actually been a competent physician, much to House's surprise and had called him on the spreading of his pain from his thigh into his body. The diagnostician had tried to downplay it but hadn't been able to fool this Dr. Travis, who told him he was going to order an arteriogram at a nearby community hospital for as soon as possible to check out the possibility that the pain was due to an embolism forming in one of the blood vessels leading from his body to his leg. If it was, it was likely due to yet another blood clot similar to the one that had caused the original infarction and would have to be treated a.s.a.p. House had suspected that for weeks already, but didn't tell Travis that. He had been avoiding having the tests done because he hadn't wanted to admit to himself that the problem with his blood clotting was an issue again.

When the pain from sitting up eased somewhat House slowly scooted himself over to the edge of the bed using his good leg and arms and then lowered his left leg over the edge, allowing his foot to touch the floor. That was the easy part. What came next was quite a bit more unpleasant. Very slowly House used both hands to lift his right leg up slightly off of the bed. That alone set off a cramp that caused him to gasp and suck in air quickly. He knew it was only going to get worse before it got better, so he forced himself to push through the pain and continue to lift the bad leg over the edge of the mattress. He paused there a moment, taking a few deep breaths and hoping that the cramping would pass quickly. His hands massaged at the ruined muscle, trying to work out the knots that were the cause of his current pain. A light sweat beaded his forehead by now and his jaw was starting to hurt from the amount of pressure he was placing on his gritted teeth. After a couple of minutes of massage, the pain was letting up slightly and he knew that it probably wouldn't improve any more until he actually got some blood flowing to the muscle.

Gingerly he set his right foot lightly onto the floor. There was a little spike in his pain level again but thankfully not as much as he expected. That was a positive sign. He looked at the pills, water and cookies she had set on the table. House dumped the tabs from the paper cup into the palm of his hand. One of them was a naproxen 500mg tablet. The others were tiny, round, white tablets with no writing or numbers on the four of them. He frowned. He put the four mystery tabs back into the plastic cup. He understood what the cookies were for; naproxen was best taken with food to prevent stomach upset from the strong NSAIDs. He opened the plastic around the cookies and quickly gobbled them down before taking the naproxen with the water.

He grabbed his cane, which was where he had hooked it onto the headboard of the bed the night before, and slowly rose to his feet, placing most of his weight onto his left leg at first and then gradually shifting a little bit onto his right. It hurt like heck, but at least he was standing. He limped to the private half-bath—sink and toilet—adjoined to his room to take care of business. Next he threw some water at his face and toweled it off. He looked at his short hair. A tuft or two stood up from being lain on funny all night. He combed his fingers through his graying head of thinning hair, shrugged, and then returned to the main part of his room to dress. He found Hutton sitting patiently on the edge of his unmade bed, waiting for him.

"I don't need help getting dressed," he told her, frowning, "or an audience. Get out!"

She rose to her feet, smiling at him; he found it irritating so early in the morning.

"Just came to see if you needed a little help but I see you have everything under control," she told him before removing herself from the room again.

He exhaled loudly and then pulled on a pair of hospital-issue trousers and one of his vintage rock t-shirts. Finishing it off with some socks and his Nikes, he headed for the corridor where Hutton was waiting for him, leaning against the wall and staring at her shoes.

"Ready for our run?" she asked and then looked up at him expectantly.

"If you haven't figured it out yet," House told her sourly. "I don't run anymore. I'm lucky if I can limp this time of day."

"Wow, that's a shocker!" she told him good-naturedly. "Don't worry, I'll do the running. I have something else in mind for you."

"Unless it's a car and I'm driving you can forget it," he told her grumpily.

"Sorry, no cars for you," she told him with a wink. "You wouldn't stop at the gate. No, but it's a pretty good compromise. Come on."

She looked at House expectantly again. He considered turning around and heading towards the dining area instead but figured he wouldn't get very far before she caught him. With a put-upon sigh and a roll of his eyes he gave in and followed her towards the elevators. Hutton pulled her ID card, hanging on a lanyard around her neck, out from underneath her jacket and stuck into the slot next to the call button, then pressed the down button. The diagnostician could hear the elevator hum to life.

"What's the point of this?" House demanded just as the elevator doors slid open, revealing an empty car. They walked on and Hutton slid her ID card into another slot that unlocked the floor buttons. She pressed P1. The pocket doors slid shut quietly and then the car began to descend.

"New life begins with new habits," she told him. "I take a whole-person approach to mental health. Your mind is trapped in your brain, which is stuck with the rest of your body so to make certain your mind functions the best that it can, your body and spirit must as well. Being stuck inside with the recycled hospital air and fluorescent lighting is hardly healthy for the body or the spirit. Fresh air and exercise is just what the doctor—that would be me—ordered."

"But I told you that I can't run with this useless leg!" House argued irritably.

"Do your arms work or did you lose function of them with the infarction, too?" Hutton asked him calmly. "Not all exercise requires one's legs."

House looked at her quizzically but didn't ask what she meant by that. Instead, he decided to wait and see what she had in store for him before he balked. The elevator doors opened and they stepped out into a long, empty corridor that led to the staff parking garage in one direction and a door to the outside world in the other. They headed for the world.

"You know, I don't think I've earned my Grounds pass yet," the diagnostician told her, as if he really cared.

"I pulled a few strings and fast-tracked you," Hutton assured him. "I've really have to have a talk with Darryl about some of the ridiculous rules around this place. Patients should have as much access to the yard as is feasible and safe for them. Nature is much more therapeutic than chipping grey paint on masonry walls."

"I don't know," House responded with a mocking tone to his voice. "I like a little lead falling into my corn flakes in the morning. Now that's a Breakfast of Champions!"

Smirking in amusement, the psychiatrist shook her head at that. "I'll tell you, the first time I stepped foot in this place it gave me the heebie-jeebies! Just like the house on the hill in _Psycho_." She shuddered at the thought. "I keep expecting some chainsaw-wielding, mask-wearing weirdo to jump out at me around every corner."

"Now I feel even safer here," House told her drolly. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she answered. They reached the double steel doors leading out to the visitor's parking lot. She used her ID card to unlock the doors and then pressed the lock bar and pushed one of them open. She held the door for him. House gladly stepped out into the sunny morning air. He could hear the pigeons lurking in the window sills cooing and from the trees standing around the concrete parking area he could hear a pair of robins singing to each other. It was peaceful, quiet and warm.

She followed him through the door and then let it shut behind them with a loud click of the lock. House had already spotted her little surprise.

Resting on the concrete was the strangest looking tricycle he'd ever seen. It was adapted for a rider with the physical challenge of non-functioning legs. The frame was constructed moderately low to the ground. Where the handlebars should have been there were hand-pedals that both powered the contraption and steered it as well. The seat rested towards the back of the frame in between the two rear wheels. Small shelf like structures running the length of the tricycle towards the single front wheel were where his legs would rest nestled up to the frame. The brakes and gears were controlled by small levers on the hand pedals.

House was impressed.

"Where did you get that from?" he asked her, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"A friend of mine owns a bike shop," Hutton answered. "He began modifying bikes for his physically disabled customers nearly ten years ago when he realized that there was a need for them and to purchasing one specially made from the big manufacturing companies cost an arm and a leg, if you'll forgive the pun. He's lent this one to me for your use while you're here. He even did a rush job and specially adapted it for your long legs. He added a little extra support to the one shelf there to bear the weight of your thigh—it should be more comfortable that way. Why don't you get on and try it out?"

She gently pried his cane from his grip and then snapped it into a built-in rack nearly identical to the one he'd had fitted to his Repsol. _Cool_.

"The wheels are automatically locked when there isn't sufficient weight in the seat, so the trike doesn't move away on you as you climb on," Hutton informed him. "It's constructed so that you can sit down into the seat like you would a chair to make it easier. You'll notice that the frame there is low so you don't have to lift your leg so high to get it on the other side of the seat. Come on, climb on!"

Giving her an uncertain frown, he took one step to it and then held onto the handle bars/pedals for balance and support as he shifted his weight onto his left hip just enough to lift his right foot up six inches, then slid it over the frame so that he stood straddling the bike with a leg on either side. Slowly he lowered his bottom to the seat, finding it, as she said, no more difficult to do than sitting down into a dining room chair. The ghost of a smile became a small smile as he ran his hand along the carefully adapted metal frame. He hadn't ridden a non-motorized bike or trike of any kind since before the infarction. He felt a little bit excited, but forced himself not to show it. He didn't want to encourage the psychiatrist too much although by the way he saw her eyes shining with her smile he was probably a little too late for that.

Gingerly he lifted his bad leg, gritting his teeth a little, and allowed Hutton to help guide his leg onto the shelf. There was a safety strap that snapped shut to help prevent his leg from shifting from the shelf during the ride. With his right leg secured he slid his left leg into its shelf with ease and secured the strap around it as well. There was a lap belt to keep his ass from sliding off of the seat. He wasn't going to do it up but Hutton proved to be just as stubborn as he was and to shut her up he relented and secured the lap belt as well. He placed his hands into the two leather loops around the hand pedals. They were set the perfect distance away from his body; he didn't have to overstretch or strain his back to reach them. On the left pedal was the brake lever. On the right pedal was the gear lever; the bike had three gears. After playing with them a bit and pedaling the trike forwards and backwards a few feet to get a feel for it he looked up at the psychiatrist and smirked.

"Not bad," he told her nonchalantly. "Might work."

"Might, huh?" she replied, tongue in cheek. "Well, just in case it does there's one more piece of safety equipment you need before you roll." She reached behind the seat and unclipped a black bicycle helmet with flame decals on either side and presented it to him.

"Must I?" he demanded, turning his nose up at it. The helmet looked cool, he figured, but he wasn't about to wear a nerdy bike helmet if he didn't have to.

"It's the law around here," she told him firmly. "Come on, I had the decals put on especially for you. You struck me as the flame-kind. Put it on so we can get going! I want to get my run in yet this morning. If I miss a day I feel cranky for the rest of the week!"

"God forbid that should happen!" House quipped sarcastically. With a sigh, he took the helmet, adjusted the straps and then put it on, clipping the strap securely.

"It's you," she told him with an approving nod. "Very Dennis Hopper-like."

"Shut up and let's go," House told her. He put the bike into gear and then used his good upper body strength to get the trike moving. It was smooth and nearly effortless, he noted to himself with satisfaction. Once he had some momentum behind him he shifted gears and built up some speed. He glanced over his shoulder to see where Hutton was. She was running just behind him now but was catching up quickly. He allowed himself a couple of quick looks back so he could enjoy the way her breasts bobbed slightly in her sports bra beneath her form fitting jacket, without crashing into a parked car.

"I can slow down if you can't keep up!" he crowed at her mockingly.

"Don't do me any favors, House," she told him as she pulled up beside him on the road that circled the inner perimeter of the hospital grounds and was without traffic at that point. She looked at him with a confident smirk and kept pace easily with him. "I've run the Boston so I don't need your pity!"

"Good," House said to her, "because I haven't got any!"

They did the loop five times and House estimated that they had gone a total of about five miles when he felt the burn in his arm, shoulder and chest muscles become a little uncomfortable and he was feeling winded. The diagnostician shook his head at himself for allowing him to get so out of shape. Hutton barely looked like she was even breathing heavier. Her cheeks were flushed a lovely red and he had to admit she was quite lovely. There was no 'shop-talk'; most of the time they didn't talk at all. They silently pushed each other competitively.

House was thoroughly enjoying himself; it felt good to feel his heart and lungs being pushed, his muscles moving his body in a way he hadn't enjoyed in a very, very long time. The sensations of the sun on his skin, warming it, the sweat beading on his face and body from physical exertion instead of pain, the breeze that caused the sweat to evaporate and cool his skin leaving a tingling behind—it all felt so good! He even caught himself smiling a couple of times and had to quickly hide it before Hutton spotted it.

He would never tell her so, but he was glad she'd disturbed his sleep for this!

After their fifth time around they called it quits, ending up in the visitors' parking lot again. Hutton hung closely by to give the diagnostician help off of the bike if he needed it, but didn't do anything without being asked. He did have her steady the tricycle as he lifted himself out of his seat but otherwise he handled everything fine on his own.

"Now we stretch it out or you'll be one miserable man later," she told him, already stretching out her legs with admirable flexibility. House stretched out his arms, shoulders, back and chest, enjoying the slight burn as he did so. He hadn't felt this physically good in a long time, and his leg was no worse for it. The naproxen was working as well—not as well as narcotics, of course, but a hell of a lot better than the ibuprofen ever did. He knew that his liver and cardiac enzymes would be monitored carefully while on the medication that did offer the possibility of serious side-effects, even though they were rare.

Hutton escorted him back up to his floor.

"So what did you think?" she asked him along the way. "Think you could handle doing that four times a week?"

House looked at her quizzically. "_Four_ times?"

She nodded. "Each morning I'm here for our sessions and on Saturday mornings."

"You'd come on a day off to take me out for a ride?" he asked her incredulously.

Looking at him curiously, but also with a slight frown, she nodded and answered, "Of course! Why wouldn't I? I run every morning anyway, so why not run with you? It's not like a living very far from here. Besides, I don't know what you mean by coming on a day when I don't have to. I don't have to be here right now—except I do, because this is an important part of your therapy…and because now I know that you enjoyed it, even though I know you'll never admit it. Why does that come as such a huge surprise to you? Don't you think you're worth it?"

They reached his floor and stepped off of the elevator. House didn't reply to her question and remained silent as they walked side by side to his room. At his door he turned to her.

"I'll see you in session," he told her quietly, avoiding her gaze. He opened his door and stepped inside.

"House," Hutton said before he could shut the door, "You may not think you're worth it, but I do. I really do. Take my word for it, okay? I'll see you in half-an-hour."

The diagnostician shut the door on her and then stared at it, trying to figure out why he felt so angry at her for what she had just said. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly and then gathered his things together for a quick shower before session. He headed for the shower room and spent a few minutes under the hot water just allowing the heat and massage of the water hitting his back to loosen some of the muscles he had used earlier on the bike. He tried to focus on the tactile sensations so that he wouldn't think about what she had said. He would have to face that soon enough. He just wanted a few minutes of peace before having to face the psychiatrist again.

After his shower he returned to his room to dress and then sat on his bed waiting for an orderly to arrive to take him to his therapy session with Hutton. He felt a knot in his stomach and tried to convince himself that it was because he had missed breakfast and was hungry; he _was_ hungry, but he also knew that the knot was due to something other than that. He wasn't certain he wanted to meet with her again that day. In fact, he was beginning to think that exercising with her in the mornings was a bad idea, and he would tell her so. She could return the tricycle to her friend and find someone else to run with. He didn't want any favors from her. He didn't even want her help. She couldn't help him—no one could. She was nothing but another do-gooder trying to fix him when he was unfixable. He couldn't allow her to get his hopes up only to have them dashed again when inevitably he would fail, or she'd pass him onto another doctor and walk away like everyone else. That's why he was angry! She offered cheap hope and empty promises, just like Nolan, and Cuddy and…and Wilson! He didn't want their lies. He knew the truth; he knew that there was no point in even trying. He would never get better or know happiness. In fact, he was truly better off dead.

He felt overwhelmed by hopelessness now. He had to end this. He had to end it before she tricked him into believing that he had a future. But how? The nurses had been very thorough when going through his private items he'd brought with him from home. They'd removed all sharp objects or objects that could be used to strangle himself in some way. He had to think of something and fast, before the orderly arrived. But what? He looked around his small room. Besides his desk and bed there was the bedside table and an upholstered armchair. An idea occurred to him and he smirked mirthlessly.


	9. Chapter 9 Part 1 Ch 8

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** Hi! Thanks for the great responses! Just a reminder that this first part has a lot of 'romance' in it as we establish what's going on and the things both House and Wilson have to work on individually before they have a chance of working things through together. The rest will definitely have elements and moments of romance but this is about House's growth and healing. Also, I'm not guaranteeing a 'happily ever after Fairy Tale ending' for everyone because let's be honest…life is seldom that way. If you want that, which is fine, try out my House/OFC, House-Wilson friendship fic "Reconciliations" or, if you've haven't already, check out "The Law of House" for an H/W slash fic. Now that I've put in those shameless plugs, on with the fic!

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part One: The Dying Time**

**Chapter Eight: Tuesday, May 25, 2010; 10:05 A.M.**

"_**When the world seems wrong,**_

_**When you've come undone**_

_**No, you're not alone.**_

_**I'll be there for you."**_

_**-"I'll be There"—Faber Drive**_

The small office that had been made available for Hutton to use while she was working at Mayfield was just as drab as the rest of the spooky, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest-like building but she had brought a few touches from home to try to warm it up a bit and give it a more cozy, inviting feel to it. She'd gotten rid of the two old 'pleather' armchairs the room had come furnished with and had had a futon brought in which she had made more comfortable with a few cushions—nothing too feminine, just selected for comfort. A soft chenille throw in charcoal grey, to go with the silver-blue of the futon, was draped over the back of it. A small, low round coffee table had been moved in on top of which she had a scented candle—lavender and vanilla—and two coasters. Opposite the futon she'd brought in a large black Papasan chair for herself. She had a coffee pot and a kettle with some mugs, coffee and tea available as well as a pitcher of purified ice water and glasses. A small docking station with speakers for her IPod had been set up on the table with the beverages, playing soft instrumental jazz. On the coffee table along with the candle and coasters was a small platter with whole-grain blueberry-buttermilk muffins she and Stephania had baked the night before.

She sat (with her shoes kicked off and set beneath the chair) cross-legged in the Papasan chair and waited for the orderly to bring her patient for his session. She held a large mug of coffee in her hands, enjoying the way the heat passed through the ceramic to warm them. After her run earlier she'd taken a quick shower in the doctor's locker room, changed into a pale yellow blouse with ¾ length sleeves and a comfortable pair of dark brown slacks, and then had hurried to the office to start the coffee and set out the muffins before House was due to arrive. A glance up at the clock on the far wall told her that the orderly was running behind. She frowned. She had to be back at her hospital in Philadelphia for a department meeting at noon and didn't like having therapy time gobbled up by someone else's laxness.

She took a few swallows of coffee and waited a while longer but when there was no sign of House at ten after, she set her mug down on one of the coasters and went to the desk to make a call to the nursing desk on House's floor to find out what the delay was. Just as she picked up the receiver there was a knock on the office door.

"Come!" she called out and expected to see House come walking in. Instead the door opened and a lightly panting nurse came in with a very serious look on her face.

"Dr. Hutton? There's been a problem with Greg."

Hutton moved from the desk towards the door, frowning. "What problem?" She demanded, feeling a little apprehensive.

The nurse told her. Hutton swallowed back an obscenity and then had the nurse lead her to the infirmary section of the psychiatric hospital. She scrambled to slip her shoes on. They were half-walking half-running the entire way with the psychiatrist quick-firing questions at the nurse.

"When did he do it?"

"We figure a couple of minutes before the orderly got to his room," the nurse, whose name was Jackie, told her. "He'd moved the desk and chair in his room to barricade the door. He would have used the bed, too, if it hadn't been bolted to the floor."

"Why wasn't the other furniture bolted down?" Hutton demanded, unable to keep all of her anger out of her voice.

"An oversight," Jackie told her with a shrug. "It happens."

"That's quite the oversight! How much blood did he lose?"

"It looked like a lot more than it actually was. Three pints? I doubt it was more than that. Dr. Travis is with him right now. He wants to transfer Greg to Philly to replace his blood volume and keep him under closer observation."

"So an ambulance has been called?" Hutton demanded next as they dashed into the elevator. The second floor was selected.

"Not yet," was the quick reply.

"Why _not_?" the psychiatrist demanded impatiently. "If the hospital G.P. thinks he should be moved—."

"It a matter of authorization," Jackie told her. "Dr. Nolan is the only one who can authorize the transfer of an Involuntary off of hospital grounds."

"So contact him and get it!" Hutton demanded, growing increasingly frustrated every moment. The elevator doors opened and the psychiatrist and nurse raced out of it, striding down a long corridor in the direction of the infirmary.

"He's been paged but we haven't got a response yet," Jackie explained, cringing a little in anticipation of Hutton's reaction to that.

"So page him _again_!" Hutton insisted, yelling now. "Call his private number, his home number! He's got to be _somewhere_! What I don't understand is how House could have done it? Weren't his personal possessions searched when he arrived here from Princeton?"

"Yes, of course!" Jackie answered indignantly. "We know how to do our jobs, Doctor! There was nothing left with him that could have been used. He obtained the sharp from his room."

"How?" the psychiatrist demanded, stopping short to look her in the face. "What?"

From out of her scrub pants' pocket Jackie pulled out the weapon and held it up for Hutton to see. She looked at it, puzzled. It looked like a giant thumb tack, with blood on the metal post.

"What is that?" the doctor demanded.

"An upholstery tack," Jackie told her with a sigh. "He pulled it out of the bottom of the seat of the chair in his room. I have no idea how he got the idea. No one on staff has ever heard of such a thing before now-!"

"The man is a literal genius!" Hutton told her angrily. "If there's a way, he'll find it! You have to try to keep a step ahead of him!"

Jackie put her hands on her hips. "Well if you think you can do better, Dr. Hutton, we would all be grateful for your input!"

"Don't tempt me," the doctor muttered coldly. "Has his medical proxy been contacted?"

"I was going to do that next," Jackie replied. Hutton shook her head at that.

"I'll do it," she informed the nurse firmly.

Hutton continued on towards the infirmary. Once there she marched past the nurse-slash-sentry seated at the front desk and moved towards the examination rooms, finding her patient in the second one.

Gregory House laid on the exam bed, semi-conscious, as Travis worked quickly at temporarily stitching closed the wounds on the patient's arms; he had used the tack to open the stitches that held the slash wounds he had inflicted upon himself to begin with. One arm had been temporarily stitched and packed with dressings to stop the blood flow while Travis still worked on the other. A better job could be done afterwards to pretty it up and perhaps minimize the scarring, although now, after having to be sutured twice, scarring was inevitable. An IV had been started in a vein in the patient's leg, feeding him saline to keep his body fluids up to prevent hypovolemic shock. House's body and clothing were covered with blood and Hutton had to close her eyes against it for a brief moment to regain her professional composure.

"How bad is it?" she asked the G.P., already having a good idea just looking at what the diagnostician had done to himself.

"Bad enough," Travis told her. He was a balding little man in his sixties, she figured, but he was quick and sure with the needle and suture cotton. A nuts and bolts doc, as her grandfather, a surgeon, had told her once. Every town needed a few of them in case of an emergency where specialists often tripped over their own feet and turned their noses up at good old fashioned patch 'em up medicine.

"Meaning?" she asked, wanting a more detailed answer.

"Meaning it could have been worse," Travis told her impatiently. "He could have bled out five pints of blood—but three was more than enough considering he lost half of his body volume just a week ago. I need to get him to Philadelphia General where I can give him some of the red stuff."

"Don't they keep a small stock of blood here just for this very thing?"

"Yes, but only O-negative," he answered. "He needs his own type right now."

"And that is?" Hutton asked quickly.

"AB-negative," Travis told her ruefully. "Figures he'd have to be the rarest type. I can give him the O-Negative but it's just not as good as his own brand when he's already recovering from one transfusion already. He's not critical, yet, but I'd sure feel better about things if I could get him moved."

"Well, I know that they're working on getting the authorization," Hutton told him, trying to hide her own frustration. It wouldn't make the situation any better to let it out. "You're still the primary, Dr. Travis. You can have him moved even if we can't get a hold of Nolan right away if you feel his life is in jeopardy if he isn't moved."

"I don't need to have my balls busted at my age, Doctor," he told her with a shake of his head. "And technically he's stable for the time being, so I don't have a case for it."

"Have him transferred to St Luke's Presbyterian when the authorization come through," the psychiatrist told him; that was the hospital where she worked. Travis finished the last stitch and then carried his suture tray out of the room.

Hutton sighed in frustration. What had triggered this? She had been certain that his response to the modified tricycle had been positive!

_Where the hell is Nolan?_ She wondered. She knew the older psychiatrist and he was never completely incommunicado. Something odd was up.

Travis returned with dressings for the wounds on House's arms.

"May I use the phone in your office?" she asked the G.P.

"Go ahead," he answered.

Hutton quickly found the G.P.'s office in the small infirmary and sat down in a visitor's chair. She grabbed the phone and called House's nursing unit to obtain the proxy's number at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, knowing from House's file that he was an oncologist on staff there. Fortunately he was the one who picked up the phone.

"Dr. James Wilson," came an efficient male voice.

"Dr. Wilson," Hutton said. "My name is Dr. Hutton. I'm calling from Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital concerning Dr. Gregory House. I understand that you hold his medical proxy?"

She could have sworn she heard a sharp intake of air before Wilson asked, "Yes, I do. What happened, Doctor?"

"I'm afraid that House tore open his stitches on his arms while unsupervised in his room," Hutton informed him, her frustration lacing her voice. "He's in the infirmary."

"How much blood did he lose?" Wilson demanded. He sounded clearly upset by this news. "Is he going to be alright?"

"He's currently in stable condition," she assured him, hoping to calm him somewhat. "He's being given fluids to prevent hypovolemic shock and his vitals are good. He lost approximately three pints before he was found by an orderly. Since this is the second time in a week that he's bled out the Mayfield G.P. wants to have him transferred to St. Luke's Presbyterian to receive a transfusion of his own blood type to be safe. We're currently waiting for the authorization to move him off of the hospital grounds but we also need your approval for further treatment."

"Of course!" the oncologist told her. He sounded angry. "How could something like this happen? He's supposed to be safe with you people! What was he doing being left unattended when he's obviously suicidal?"

"Those are excellent questions, Dr. Wilson," she told him. "I've been asking the same questions myself. I was under the impression that he was on what we call Q-10, meaning that a staffer has to check on the patient once every ten minutes to make certain that the patient hasn't done exactly what House did. I'm not on staff here at Mayfield; I'm Chief Psychiatric Attending at St. Luke's. Dr. Nolan, House's therapist of record, called me in to consult on Dr. House's case. I'm not fully aware of all of the details, Doctor, but I assure you I'm going to find out and do everything in my power to make certain this doesn't happen again!"

"I should hope it doesn't!" Wilson told her, trying to calm down. "Listen, I…I have to make some arrangements and shuffle some appointments but then I'll come down to St. Luke's. I should be there early this afternoon."

"Good, Doctor," Hutton told him. "I'll see you then. Hopefully I'll have further information for you. Oh, and Dr. Wilson?"

"Yes?"

"House is going to be alright, physically. We've yet to begin on the psychological. Please drive safely." Hutton said gently.

"I will, thank you Dr. Hutton. Goodbye."

She ended the call and then returned to the treatment room, where Travis was finished putting on the dressings. He promptly left the room again.

The psychiatrist pulled up a stool and sat next to House's side. He shivered slightly. She grabbed the blanket that had been draped across his waist and pulled it up to his shoulders. His eyes opened slowly and he looked at her for a second with clouded eyes before looking away in shame.

Hutton got up from the stool, found a clean washcloth and wet it with warm water at the hand sink nearby before wringing it out and returning to the stool.

"May I touch you House, to wipe the blood off of your face?" she asked him carefully. "If you don't say otherwise, I'll assume you're okay with it—okay?"

When he didn't answer either way, very gently she began to wipe blood and dried salty tear trails off of his face. Her strokes with the cloth were as gentle as caresses. Her heart went out to him; the look of pain on his face hit home with her. Yes, she was his doctor and she was supposed to remain objective but in her opinion objectivity did not preclude compassion, and what the man next to her needed for than anything else just then was compassion.

"That probably feels better," she said to him very softly, moving from cleaning his face to his neck. He made no move to stop her but he couldn't bring himself to look at her, either.

"I don't know why you chose to do this to yourself," she told him without recrimination in her tone, "but that's alright. It matters but not so I can use it to judge you or punish you; it matters because if I understood why I might be able to help you better. I'm just sorry you didn't feel safe enough to tell me that you were feeling this desperate again. Was I pushing you too fast? I hope not. I know that you're probably feeling ashamed, House, and probably angry that you didn't die but I for one am really glad you didn't. I'm not angry. I just want to help you. You're not in trouble. Do you understand that? You don't have to be afraid of me. I'm here for you. That's not going to change just because of a little setback. This just tells me that you're hurting a lot right here and right now, so we're going to deal with that together. House, can you tell me why you're crying right now? I promise not to tell anyone else or to make fun of you. Do you feel safe enough to tell me?"

"I don't…." the diagnostician whispered and then took a shuddering breath.

"You don't what, House?" Hutton pressed gently, setting the cloth aside and taking hold of one of his hands, squeezing it comfortingly. "Feel safe enough to tell me?"

"Not that," he answered, shaking his head slightly. He swallowed hard. "I don't want to start hoping again." he told her and then closed his eyes against the tears that he couldn't seem to repress.

The psychiatrist sighed, beginning to understand. She gently brushed his cheek with her hand. "Is it okay that I'm touching your hand and face, House? Do you want me to stop?"

After a moment he shook his head no. She smiled softly and continued to hold his hand.

"Hoping is very frightening," she told him in agreement. "Because if we hope for something, then we risk being hurt and disappointed if it doesn't happen. Am I right?"

House nodded ever so slightly. His troubled blue eyes met hers, searching her face for something, but she wasn't certain what. At that moment she knew that his walls were completely down, crumbled, and she could see his soul, something she doubted had happened more than once or twice before in his life for anyone. She could see the desperation; the way he almost nuzzled into her touch was like a frightened child nuzzling and clinging to its mother for safety and comfort. Nolan had told her that he would be a tough nut to crack, but she didn't have to crack the shell open; life had already done it for her and before this moment passed and his defenses came up again, locking her out, she needed to communicate clearly to him how much she cared and could be trusted. His anxious blue eyes came to rest on hers and she held his gaze.

"I know that right now you feel completely alone, that nobody cares about you and you can't trust anybody, but you can. I care about you and you can trust me. See, I used to be stoic, objective and completely detached. Then during a session with a young patient she told me that I was just like everyone else in her life before pulling out a gun and shooting herself in the head. The thing is I didn't feel _anything_. It simply didn't matter to me what had happened to her. A few weeks later it all came back to me in flashbacks and I hated the person I'd allowed myself to become. I'd always been a caring person from the time I was knee high to a grasshopper. Helping people was my bread and water. You're hurting, and who can blame you?...I want to take that hurt away, House, but I know that I can't and I don't want to change you because you're a great person just the way you are. You had me killing myself laughing out there this morning! I mean, what kind of maniac tries to pop a wheelie on an adapted trike? Ah, I saw that smirk! I don't want to fix you. I just want you to heal, but actually doing it is your job and you're the only one who can do it. However, you need to know that I'm not leaving you to struggle through it alone. I'm going to be there for you, every step, until you don't need me to be anymore and tell me to get lost. I need you to grant me two favors, though."

The diagnostician frowned and mouthed the word, "What?"

"First, the next time it even crosses your mind for a second to do anything to harm yourself, you go to your door and yell for a nurse and tell her to page me. I don't care if it's three o'clock in the morning, just do it. You're not going to want to, and that's how you can tell that you absolutely _must_. Just suspend your disbelief right now let me believe for the both of us. Trust me, okay?"

He shook his head and frowned. "Why do you give a damn?" House whispered.

"I've already told you why," Hutton told him with a fond smile. "Because you're just as important and special—if not more so—than anyone else on this planet; that alone makes you worth it. Don't shake your head no. To me—and to other incredibly intelligent and discerning people you'll meet soon enough—you are worth every bit of it and more. Anyone who doesn't recognize that isn't worth your time worrying about. Don't _ever_ tell yourself that you're not again. Now for my second favor."

House frowned, looking confused. "What else?"

"Stop punishing yourself for something you don't deserve to be punished for. There are enough people who have blamed and punished you unjustly. Don't help them by continuing the unwarranted harm to yourself. There is nothing that you have done-unless you have a criminal record the police don't even know about—that deserves the death penalty, so quit trying to be your own prosecutor, judge, and executioner because quite frankly you suck at all three of those jobs. Will you grant me these favors, _please_?"

He closed his eyes briefly and then looked back at her.

"Okay," he whispered before closing his eyes again, this time because he was falling asleep.

**Tuesday, May 25, 2010; 2:47 P.M.**

Hutton was on the phone at the admissions desk with Dr. Nolan, just about find out the explanation of where he was earlier when Wilson arrived at the Emergency Room at St Luke's Presbyterian Hospital. She ended her call and handed the phone receiver to the nurse, about to return to House's treatment room when he inquired about House. She approached him.

"Hello, are you Dr. Wilson?" she asked.

The well-dressed and groomed brunet nodded, "Yes?"

"How do you do?" she said to him, extending her hand. "I'm Dr. Olivia Hutton. I'm the one who called you this morning concerning your friend."

He took her hand with a weak smile. She was struck at how soft and warm his hand was; the pressure he applied during the shake was perfect, practiced. Perhaps oncologists took special training in approachability during their Fellowshipping. He was an attractive man, perhaps a couple of years older than the psychiatrist was, but not much more. He has soft brown eyes to match his eyes and the solid build of a man approaching middle-age. He wasn't overweight, however. He wore a stylist charcoal grey suit with a crisp, white dress shirt that was fastened at the cuffs with gold cufflinks. The tie he wore was silk and had a forest green background with yellow and orange diagonal striped running down it. Not the loveliest tie she had ever seen, but it was bold and colorful. On his feet he wore expensive French loafer that appeared to be spit-shined. He wore a sand-colored overcoat over it all. There were no rings on his immaculately manicured fingers. He wore a lightly scented aftershave that Hutton didn't recognize.

"Yes, of course!" Wilson acknowledged. "I meant to be here sooner but I was delayed by a patient emergency."

"No problem at all," she told him with a smile. He looked anxious, swallowing frequently and shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot. He was trying to be polite, but he really didn't want to be talking with her; he wanted to see his friend.

"I realize you're anxious to House," she told him carefully, "but there a couple of things we should discuss first. Why don't we sit down in the waiting room briefly?"

Wilson frowned but nodded and allowed her to lead him to a pair of chairs. He sat anxiously on the edge of his seat.

"House is going to be alright, isn't he?" the oncologist asked. "Nothing about his status has changed?"

"Don't worry, he's going to be fine. He's already feeling stronger," Hutton assured him. "First of all, I want you to be aware of the fact that House is currently under what we call Q-C watch, which is a fancy way of saying he's under suicide watch. It's required that a member of the hospital staff be with House constantly. He's not to be left alone for any reason, so while you visit you can visit privately but if you should want to leave his presence, even if it's just to run to the washroom or grab a coffee, you have to ring for a nurse and wait until she arrives before you can go, okay?"

He sighed silently, nodding. His face wore a grim mask of worry and pain. "Of course, I completely understand. Is there anything else?"

"Yes," Hutton admitted, thinking about how she was going to say what she needed to while doing so as kindly as possible. It wasn't going to be easy. "Dr. Wilson, I'm not certain what your relationship with House is currently like, but you need to know that when I informed him that you were coming he became quite agitated."

"He did?" The oncologist didn't sound as surprised as the psychiatrist would have expected had everything been going perfectly well between the friends.

Hutton nodded. "At first he expressed that he didn't want to see you at all. When I asked him why all he would tell me was that he didn't want to face you. I believe, although I can't be certain, that his fear of seeing you right now is due to his strong feelings of shame over this latest attempt on his life. It's not unusual for a person who has just attempted suicide to feel a gamut of emotions ranging from shame to anger to fear to disappointment. Keep that in mind when you see him; he may not react the way you would normally expect him to. Just respect his wishes, whatever they may be. It's important that he remains calm. He's already been given Ativan to help with the agitation and I'd rather not have to give him anything more for now because right now he's open, raw. His emotions are exposed and he's not finding it easy to deal with them, so we have to proceed carefully. I'd hate to see him shut down and not be approachable at all. For that reason, until we're certain that he is going to tolerate your presence reasonably well, I will be sitting in on your visit. I realize this may make you very uncomfortable, but my concern is for House's emotional well-being and his alone."

"I'm his best friend, Dr. Hutton," Wilson told her, frowning. "I've known him for nearly twenty years—I think I know how to behave around him."

"With all due respect, Doctor," the psychiatrist told him bluntly, "I think what you believe is an appropriate way to behave around House is, in fact, a danger to him. The way he has been regarded by the significant people in his life has had a tremendous impact on him, and from what I've read from his file and observed personally so far, that impact has not been a very healthy one."

"What are you saying?" Wilson asked her indignantly. "Are you suggesting that I'm to blame for House's breakdown?"

Hutton took a steadying breath and looked the oncologist in the eye. "Yes, I am-but not just you! Quite frankly, both Dr. Nolan and I feel that he has had a series of toxic relationships with people that have been very harmful to his mental and emotional well-being. It began with his parents, continued to his interactions with peers throughout his schooling and college and has continued in both his romantic and platonic relationships to this very day!"

"No," Wilson told her, shaking his head. "No, House's relationships are toxic because of House. He doesn't like people, for one thing. He has no use for them—just ask his team. His infarction wasn't his fault but ever since that he has been angry, bitter, and emotionally distant with everyone he meets. He trusts no one and tends to interfere in others' lives simply for the amusement value of it sometimes. When people try to get to know him, he shuts them out and shuts them down. When people try to get close to him he freaks out and either runs away or finds some other means of sabotaging things. He's always been self-destructive and hell-bent on proving that misery does indeed love company! For some reason he likes me—sometimes too much. He becomes possessive and jealous and has interfered in every romantic relationship I've entered since the day I met him. He makes people dislike him so he doesn't have to risk finding someone who does care for him and then losing them. I'm pretty much his only friend and have been for years because I'm willing to look past his manipulations and machinations and hang on for dear life!"

During his tirade, Hutton had sat back, listening with growing astonishment with every word the oncologist said. She felt herself becoming very protective of House and defensive at what was being said about him. This man called himself House's best friend? He spoke about House as if he were his worst _enemy_!

"Wow!" Hutton said once she was certain he was through talking. "Has the Vatican been notified? I think the world has a new saint! How magnanimous of you to tolerate such a low-life bastard like the one you've just described, Doctor! How lucky that person must be to have you take pity on him! And oh, and by the way? That person you described is not Dr. Gregory House, the man in that treatment room over there receiving a transfusion of blood to replace the volume of his own that he lost trying to kill himself because of his ludicrous belief that no one cares for him and he's a worthless piece of skin that deserves to die!"

"How dare you?" Wilson exclaimed, raising his voice. He stood up and planted his hands on his hips. "You don't even know me _or_ him!"

"I've got news for you, Dr. Wilson," she told him incredulously, rising to her feet as well and glaring him in the eyes. "It's obvious that _you_ don't either! Let me tell you who Gregory House _really_ is—the man behind the protective mask that you have failed to see past in the twenty years you've known him! He is not only a medical genius but a tenderhearted artist as well. His emotions are deep and pure. I can't tell you what has been discussed in therapy except that Dr. Nolan noted that he was perhaps one of the most insightful and honest men he'd ever met. He also mentioned how much he admired House's incredible loyalty to those people he cares about and loves and how unfortunate it is that he has chosen so poorly the people to devote himself to. I've probably said way too much to you and might lose my license but this is something that has to be said, ethics be damned!

"I'll tell you one more observation of my own, one that I made this morning when he asked me why I would take time on my day off to spend time with him just exercising and having fun. I realized that he's so unacquainted with the genuine appreciation of and affection for him as a person, a human being, as _Gregory _from the people his associated with in his life that he thinks my taking an hour out of my Saturday morning, during which I'd be running anyway, and spending it with him is something extraordinary and amazing and that I must have some ulterior motive for doing so. Think about that, Dr. Wilson. Here is a man who is blown away by the idea of someone caring enough about him to actually want to spend time with rather than being forced to do so or motivated to do so for selfish reasons. You're his so-called best friend! How does that make you feel? But I guess you're going to tell me that his non-existent self-esteem and overwhelming self-loathing is simply his way of manipulating people."

Wilson didn't answer right away. He stared at a spot on the tiled floor, thinking through what she had just said. His face was expressionless.

Hutton took a deep breath and released it slowly. "I get very protective of my patients, Doctor, and I don't apologize for that. Most of them need someone to care enough about them to want to protect them. House certainly does."

The oncologist looked up at her, and his dark eyes were glossy with unshed tears. "I do care for him, Doctor. That's why I'm here. That's why I'm scared to death of receiving a phone call telling me that he has finally succeeded in killing himself. I'm not claiming to be a saint. I know I'm not. I know that I've screwed up." He paused a moment and looked away, as if trying to compose himself. Despite his efforts, a tear escaped one of his eyes and ran down his cheek. "But loving him hasn't always been the easiest thing to do. I'm afraid to care for him as much as I do because…because I don't know what will happen to me when he finally has that fatal motorcycle accident or commits suicide. I…I've hurt him, I know, but I've been hurting too."

The psychiatrist sighed at what she believed was an honest expression of his emotions and thoughts. It occurred to her just how much hurt the man in front of her might be feeling and, worse, have bottled up inside, reading to blow like a volcano when least expected. She chided herself for losing her temper, one of her greatest weaknesses.

"I...I'm sure you have been," she told him softly. "I'm sorry for coming down so hard on you. I just need you to understand that House is very vulnerable and thinks he deserves to die, so when you're in there, be cognizant of that fact and don't say or do anything that may aggravate those feelings."

Nodding, Wilson wiped the tear away. "I understand," he replied. "Just know that I do care about him—even if I've got a messed up way of showing it."

"Well, then," the psychiatrist said, "It's time to do it right. When we go in there, make sure you tell him that you care about him and value him and no guilt trips over _anything_. This is not the time to settle grievances. He can't afford to feel any more guilt than he currently does. Okay. Do you need a moment or two to compose yourself, or freshen up before I take you in to see him?"

"No," he told her with certainty. "Let's go."


	10. Chapter 10 Part 1 Ch 9

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** This will have to do you for a little while as I have to focus on updating and finishing 'At The Spectra' this week. This will be it for Wilson for a while, too—but fear not, he will reappear again. Enjoy!

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part One: The Dying Time**

**Chapter Nine: Tuesday, May 25, 2010; 3:00 P.M.**

Wilson followed House's therapist into the treatment room where the diagnostician laid on a bed, his head elevated. An I.V. line ran from a nearly empty bag of AB-negative while blood through a pump to House's leg; a viable vein couldn't be found in his sliced up arms. A pulse oximeter was clipped to his left index finger and leads lead to a heart monitor. He was receiving oxygen supplementation through a nasal cannula. He looked like he was asleep but the moment he heard the door open he opened his eyes to look at whoever it was coming in.

The oncologist couldn't get over how frail his best friend looked; House's pallor was on the grayish side, and he looked exhausted beyond his years. His usually brilliant blue eyes, full of the spark of his intelligence and ego, were now a pale, almost translucent blue and dull, lifeless. It took everything Wilson had not to gasp when he entered the room. He forced a small smile on his face and met House's listless gaze. Hutton had told him that House was looking better than he had when he was brought in; the oncologist was glad he hadn't had to see him then. He never would have been able to hide his shock.

"House, Dr. Wilson wanted to visit with you for a while," Hutton told him. "How do you feel about that?"

His gaze remained on Wilson; House shrugged. "Whatever."

His lack of enthusiasm not only worried Wilson, it also hurt him a little, too. He took the seat next to House's bedside while Hutton discreetly took the chair that sat just next to the door, giving at least a little bit of an illusion of privacy for them. She began to read a magazine that had been left their by the nurse on watch before. Wilson wished she would just leave the room but he realized that wasn't going to happen until she was certain House was going to be alright with his presence there.

For a few moments they were silent; the diagnostician didn't look like he had the energy to speak and the oncologist had no idea what to say. So, he chose to say what was on his mind at that moment.

Wilson gently grasped one of House's hands; the diagnostician's hand did move at all. "I'm glad you didn't succeed, House."

The older man blinked. "I'm not," he breathed. "Why did you come, Wilson?"

"Because I was worried about you," he told his best friend. "I was scared and…and I had to see you just to reassure myself that you were, in fact, still alive."

"Pointless," was the patient's comment to that. "I'm sure they told you that I was."

"Yes," Wilson agreed, nodded. "But I still had to come."

"Waste of time," House told him. "I'm still a pain in the ass for you."

"Yes," the younger man agreed with a crooked smile, "but I need that from time to time to remind me of what's important."

"And what's that?"

"You," Wilson told him simply. He gingerly picked up House's hand and held it in his own, relieved when the older man didn't pull away.

"That sounded really gay, you know," House told him, frowning.

Wilson couldn't help but snigger. "I'm pretty certain I'm bi, House. At least I've figured that much out." He lowered his voice, hoping that Hutton wasn't keeping track of everything they said. "I also figured out how much I love you."

"Wilson-." House tried to say but his friend cut him off.

"I don't really care who knows it," the oncologist asserted. "I've been so stupid, House. I'm in love with you, and I want you to fight to get better. I want the opportunity to make up for my stupidity-."

"Wilson, stop." The older man said a little more forcefully and this time and the younger man decided to listen. House took a few deep breaths before saying anything more. "Don't do this."

"Do what?" he asked, confused.

"Please don't tell me you're in love with me," House answered, looking away from him, "because you're not."

Feeling his defenses being triggered, the oncologist did his best to control his frustration at again being called a liar. "Yes, I am," he argued softly. "I've nearly lost you three times in one week. My heart has stopped three times, thinking about how lost I would be without you. I can't stop thinking about you, dreaming about you. I know I hurt you when I chose Sam over you and asked you to move out."

"You knew," House told him, "but even after you knew, you still chose her. I've spent two years yearning to hear you say that you love me, hoping against hope. But I wasn't good enough. I went through hell last year detoxing and having my head shrunk. I did it to regain my sanity, yes, but I only cared about being sane again so I could be with you—not Cuddy. I only hallucinated about Cuddy and I sleeping together because you were so determined to pair us off I lost hope that you shared any of the same feelings for me that I had for you, so I figured being with her was better than dying alone. I stayed clean and endured the endless, mind-numbing pain on just ibuprofen, because I wanted to prove myself—to you. Ibuprofen doesn't even scratch the surface of the pain some days, Wilson. But I couldn't tell you that because I couldn't bear to have you look at me with that disappointed gaze and tell me that the pain was in my head again. The pain isn't in my head, it's in my leg. But I knew you didn't believe me, and it hurt to know how little faith you had in me."

Wilson shook his head. Why hadn't his best friend told him this before now? _He did…but you had to be right. You refused to listen, _his conscience told him. The truth really was that _House_ had been right. He wouldn't have believed him. He'd convinced himself that House's pain was drug-induced and psychosomatically triggered and antagonized. He closed his mind completely to the idea that the pain was, indeed, an actual physical reality—because if House had been telling the truth, then Wilson would have had to admit that he'd been wrong and his callous disregard to his friend's suffering had been unjustified, making him the monster, not House. James Wilson was never the monster. Denial-that should have been his middle name.

In spite of that realization, Wilson was feeling defensive. Or was it because of that realization?

"I thought that maybe you were coming around," House continued. "You wanted me to be there with you before, during and after the organ donation. You needed me—or at least I convinced myself that you did."

"I did," Wilson insisted, squeezing his hand. "I still do."

House sighed audibly, undeterred. "Then you bought the condo…you said it was revenge for the way Cuddy hurt me. You did it for _me_. I was…hopeful that you were telling me that you were buying the loft for the two of us to live together in—permanantly. You bought the organ for me—picked it out yourself instead of having Cuddy's interior designer to do it. It was obvious it was for me and not for yourself because you don't play. I thought this was a gift of commitment, a reassurance that the loft was my home with you, that you valued me. I thought that maybe…you were showing me that you loved me because you couldn't bring yourself to say it. I was almost happy. But then you jumped at the opportunity to be with Sam the moment she made herself available to you. You pushed me away. I backed off, stopped trying to sabotage your relationship, but that wasn't good enough. No, then you had to pay people to take me out and keep me away from you and the harpy. You chose her over me. Then you kicked me out so you could replace me with her. Once again I was expendable. I've never been good enough no matter what I say or do. I'm always the consolation prize. I realized that you could never love me the way I needed you to. You were just like everyone else. I've never been good enough for anybody."

"I was wrong, House," Wilson insisted, feeling a hint of panic settle in his belly. He didn't like the way this conversation was going. The diagnostician's heart rate had begun to accelerate sharply and his voice was beginning to quaver with emotion—stronger and rawer than Wilson had ever seen his friend express in the nearly twenty years they'd known each other. "You _are_ good enough, House," the oncologist insisted.

House shook his head, his voice quavering. "You didn't get rid of Sam because of me, Wilson! You got rid of her because she was beginning to annoy and bore you. She was no longer the prey to be hunted. The only reason you came to 'realize' that I was the one you wanted to pursue and betray her with was when I tried to kill myself. Then I became convenient and needy enough. It is all the same thing it was with your three failed marriages! You'll be in love with me…until you get me. Then I'll be the next Wilson 'spouse' to be cheated on. You can't help it…it's a compulsion with you-your second nature. I'll be good enough for you…until the next woman comes along, and then I won't be good enough anymore. I can't go through that anymore."

"It's different this time," Wilson told him fervently. He didn't notice Hutton staring at the monitors with concern and then glaring at him. "House, I love you and you love me. I've always come back to _you_."

"Yes!" House suddenly shouted. Hutton sat up in her seat, he eyes watching the two men like a hawk. She look like she was about to fly to her feet at any moment. "When you had no one else to turn to! I need to be needed all the time, not just when it's convenient! I love you, Wilson! I'll probably always love you…but I can't be the one to come back to when there's no one better to play with. That's all I'll ever be! I can't …I can't-!"

The diagnostician had began to hyperventilate and now it was getting out of control, his heart rhythm becoming irregular. Hutton was on her feet.

"Dr. Wilson, please leave the room now," she told him firmly as she moved between him and House to tend to her patient. Wilson didn't leave. She pressed the call button and a nurse showed up immediately. "Please show Dr. Wilson out of the room then come back with point-five milligram Ativan, stat!"

"Yes, Doctor," the nurse said, and touched the oncologist's forearm, trying to direct him to the door. He jerked his arm away from her, trying to get to House again. He needed to make him understand that he loved House more than he ever had his wives and girlfriends.

"No! House, please listen to me!"

Hutton turned on him, her eyes flashing. He could tell she was barely restraining her frustration with him. "Dr. Wilson, you'll go with the nurse or I'll have security escort you out!"

He could tell she was serious. Nothing had turned out the way he had hoped. What happened? How had this conversation blown up in his face just like all of the others? Why couldn't he and the diagnostician talk without arguing anymore? It was like House had dumped him and didn't even want to be _friends_ anymore. The thought of that scared him, hurt him. The nurse once again took Wilson's forearm; this time he allowed himself to be lead out of the room and back to the waiting room. The nurse left him to retrieve the Ativan for House.

Hanging his head in his hands, Wilson couldn't even think. His mind was swirling with thoughts of what just had been said between the two of them, the expression of hurt on House's face and in his voice, memories of how they used to laugh and banter and enjoy each other's company, his own anger at not being believed when he confessed his love to the older man, the hopes of a relationship once the diagnostician was released from Mayfield. Suddenly, everything seemed to be spiraling out of control. Why couldn't House forgive him and give him another chance? How many times had he forgiven the older man for crossing the line and messing up the younger man's life? Wasn't he allowed to make mistakes or was that simply the privilege of Gregory House?

He wasn't certain how long he'd been sitting there like that when he heard footsteps approach him. He looked up to see Hutton standing in front of him. He expected her to start lecturing him for what occurred with House. Instead, she looked serious but not angry, and she sat down in the seat next to his. They were silent for a few moments.

"Is he going to be okay?" the oncologist asked her anxiously.

"Yes, I believe so," the psychiatrist answered. "He was given Ativan and he's begun to calm down. I suspect he'll probably succumb to sleep soon, which is what he needs right now." She sighed audibly and rubbed her forehead with the pads of her fingers. "You should have warned me about the true nature of your relationship with House."

"I didn't realize he'd react that way," Wilson told her.

"Have the two of you been romantically involved long?" she asked. The oncologist wasn't certain he wanted to talk to her about his relationship with the diagnostician. It was none of her business. She shouldn't have been in there eavesdropping in the first place.

"It's none of your business," Wilson told her defensively and rose to his feet.

She rose to her feet as well. "It's obviously an issue that has a huge impact on House. That makes it my business, Dr. Wilson. I can't force you to tell me, but knowing will be very helpful in knowing how to approach his treatment. Obviously his relationship with you, no matter what its nature happens to be, is upsetting for him."

"You were in there," Wilson spat resentfully. "You heard what was said!"

"I got a few pieces of the puzzle," Hutton told him tiredly. "I could use a few more."

Suddenly all Wilson wanted to do was jump into his car and drive home. It had been a mistake coming to Philly. Maybe it all was a great big mistake.

"Get them from him," Wilson told her. "I'll sign whatever forms you need me to, and then I'm leaving!"

Opening her mouth to argue, Hutton appeared to change her mind. Her hands clenched and unclenched but she showed restraint over her temper this time. She took a deep breath and released it in exasperation.

"Very well," she agreed coolly. "They're waiting at the nursing station."

Wilson nodded and then promptly headed towards the station when Hutton addressed him again. He stopped reluctantly and looked back at her. She walked towards him and then said, "Have you ever considered talking about this with someone-?"

"Trying to drum up business for yourself, Dr. Hutton?" Wilson asked her bitterly. "I don't need help, so focus on House and leave me alone." He turned his back to her and continued to the nursing station. He signed what he was told to sign and then left St. Luke's as quickly as he could. He felt like sobbing, and didn't want prying eyes to watch him do it.

**Tuesday, May 25, 2010; 8:37 P.M**.

The small bar was busy for a Tuesday night in Princeton; most of the tables were taken, people played darts and pool while others watched some kind of mixed martial arts event on the flat screen TVs mounted strategically around the establishment. Ubiquitous rock music played underneath the sound of people talking and laughing, glasses and mugs clinking or tapping on the wooden tables and pool balls smacking into each other before falling with thuds into leather pockets.

Lisa Cuddy scanned the room with her blue-grey eyes, looking for one particular individual. Seeing his back where he sat hunched over a drink at the bar, she approached Wilson, ignoring the leering eyes and a wolf-whistle as she crossed the room. This was not exactly the style of establishment she would have expected Wilson to go to. The closer she got, she clearer it was that her friend was not doing well and she frowned with concern.

Taking a seat on the stool next to him, Cuddy set her purse on the bar and placed a hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention. His hands were wrapped around a tumbler of amber liquid and ice. When Wilson looked at her, he squinted a little in an effort to get his eyes to focus on her. He was obviously drunk. He smiled weakly.

"Th-that was quick," he told her.

"I was concerned," she told him with a weak smile. "You've never called me before asking for a ride home."

"I u-usually call a cab," he agreed, nodding. He slurred slightly when he talked. He took a swallow from his glass.

The bartender approached Cuddy. "What can I get you?" he asked her simply.

"Nothing," she answered but Wilson intervened. "Bring her a wine spritzer—you still drink those, right?—and I'll have another of these—"he lifted his nearly empty glass, "—f-for the road."

When Cuddy didn't object the bartender went to retrieve their drinks. She appraised her friend carefully. "How many of those have you had?"

"Six, so far," Wilson told her. "Don't say it—I know. I'm a lightweight. H-house tells me that all of the time."

"How's he doing?" she asked, curious and concerned.

"He'll be fine," Wilson told her, "so long as I stay away from him. He can't seem to tolerate my presence—he doesn't want anything to do with me." He finished the drink and set the glass down loudly just as the bartender returned with their drinks. He gathered up the empty and left them.

"He'll come around," she told him before taking a small sip from her glass. "He's not in his right mind right now."

Wilson shook his head and looked glum. "I don't think so. I think I've lost m-my b-best friend."

Cuddy sighed, having no idea what to say to him. She knew that he and the diagnostician had a friendship that was closer than one she'd ever seen before without there being more than platonic love before. It had been apparent how dependant House had been on Wilson, but she hadn't realized until now just how much Wilson was dependant on him as well. This seemed out of place, however. Wilson was more than depressed. He appeared to be heartbroken, and it occurred to Cuddy for the first time that perhaps there was more than platonic love at play here, at least on the oncologist's part. He had just broken up with Sam, ending yet another serious relationship coincidentally at the same time as the diagnostician's breakdown. What if…?

Wilson drank deeply, staring into his drink.

"Did House say that?" she asked gently, "or is that what your interpretation was of what he said?"

Chuckling bitterly, the oncologist slurred, "He said that no m-matter what he did I never felt he was g-good enough and that he can't deal with that anymore. Lisa, I feel like I'm the one who isn't g-good enough for him."

"That's ridiculous," Cuddy told him. "He's lucky to have a friend like you!"

"Maybe," Wilson sighed, his voice breaking slightly, "he isn't as l-lucky as you think. I kicked him out after g-giving him mixed signals and then choosing Sam over him. I pushed him away b-because Sam convinced me that he would cause a rift between us if I didn't. I never thought that she was c-causing a rift between House and me! Who tells you to p-pay people to get your b-best friend out of your life?"

"You were looking out for yourself for once, James," Cuddy told him firmly. "You've spent the past twenty years of your life looking after him, being his doormat. All you did was demonstrate to him that you were going to forge out a life of your own—there's nothing wrong with that!"

"But why d-did a life of my own mean I had to p-push House out of it?" the oncologist demanded. "Why is it every time I try to have 'a life of my own' I p-push him away? And don't blame all of this on House…he can help it if he's in…." he allowed his voice to trail off.

Cuddy sensed that it was time to take him home; she didn't want to risk allowing him to say things in public he would regret having said in the morning.

"Time to go," she told him, signaling the bartender. When he arrived she said to him, "I assume you took his keys. I'll take them now, I'm driving him home."

Wilson stood up unsteadily and pulled out his wallet, throwing a wad of money on the bar but Cuddy knew it was way too much. She left an appropriate amount and stuffed the rest into his jacket pocket. The bartender brought her the keys and took the money. Trying to walk from the bar, Wilson staggered some. Cuddy sighed silently and wrapped an arm around one of his, acting as a steadying force for him as they headed for the door. In the parking lot she led him to her car and unlocked the doors with her key fob. The Dean of Medicine was about to help him into it when he pulled his arm from her.

"I can g-get into a car by myself," Wilson told her. He did it a little clumsily but did, indeed, accomplish the act without aid. Cuddy rolled her eyes, climbing behind the wheel. As they drove towards the loft it was quiet for a while, but finally she had to ask him what had been on her mind for a while.

"James," she said carefully, "may I ask you a very personal question?"

He looked over at her with glassy eyes and smiled crookedly. "Sure, as long as you never t-tell another soul anything I t-tell, just in case I'm kicking myself tomorrow for answering. It's easier to hide from one p-personal than twenty."

Cuddy had to smile at that. She chose her words carefully. "Everyone who knows both you and House knows that you are very close friends. Is there more to your relationship with each other than simple friendship?"

"We're _b-best _fr-friends," Wilson answered quickly, "or, at least we were."

"I know that," Cuddy acknowledged with a nod. She bit her lip, deciding to try again, a little more bluntly this time. "But has your relationship ever gone beyond platonic care for each other?"

He chuckled at the question. "Are you asking me if House and I are f-fucking each other?"

Feeling her face flush, Cuddy took a moment to compose herself before answering, "I was thinking more in terms of you being attracted to each other romantically, but I guess your way of putting it fits."

"We're not f-fucking each other," Wilson told her plainly. "B-but I wish we were…and House f-f-f-feels the same way, or at least he did b-before he decided to kill himself. He's b-been in love with me for years, Lisa. I didn't know…I honestly d-didn't know until just recently. I guess I've b-been aware of my own feelings for him for a while but I wouldn't let m-myself believe it or f-feel it. I didn't want to be anything but a straight arrow. Things were g-getting too…close between us and I guess I p-panicked; then Sam returned to my life and I jumped in head over heels b-because…because I was afraid of being in love with my male b-best friend. I _am_ in love with him, though-but I c-came to my senses too late and now I think I've lost any chance with him. I'm…miserable." Tears were filling his eyes and he looked away from her, turning his face towards his window. He rested his head against the glass, looking defeated.

It would have been easy for Cuddy to lose herself in her own thoughts—Wilson's confession had certainly given her a lot to mull over concerning both men—but the oncologist needed her compassion first and foremost. She reached over and rubbed his shoulder and arm comfortingly.

"I'm not certain what to say," she admitted softly. "I had no idea things between the two of you were so…complicated. You know my track record when it comes to dealing with anything romantic with House…." She sighed. "Give him time, James. You have to keep in mind that right now he is very confused and not thinking the most clearly. He's so lost in his own pain and self-destruction that he can't really process anything else right now. As he heals, he'll come around. There's one thing I know for certain—when House gets his mind set on something that he wants, he doesn't give up easily."

Wilson wiped at the tears on his face before looking back at Cuddy. "That's the problem, Lisa," he told her. "He's g-given up on everything and I…I'm scared for him, for me…for the f-future."

Without an answer to give him, Cuddy remained silent but gave his arm another encouraging squeeze. They soon pulled up to the curb out front of the Condo complex where the oncologist now lived all alone in that great big loft. She was worried for him, more worried than she was for House. She knew that House would pull out of this and survive, somehow. He was like the Phoenix rising out of the fire to fly again on its self-destructive journey back to the sun, a cycle as tragic and inevitable as death itself. Wilson, on the other hand, had his limits; she had discovered that all too well when Amber died in his arms. He had truly loved her—the Dean of Medicine knew it. If he loved House half as much, she feared that his pain would cause him to withdraw into himself and away his family and friends again, perhaps this time for good.

"Thank you f-for the ride, Lisa…and the talk," Wilson told her appreciatively. He opened the door and unsteadily extricated himself from the vehicle. Cuddy was already out and standing beside him when he was ready to attempt walking to the door.

"I can do this," he told her. "I've dragged m-myself home many times drunker than this."

"Humor me," she told him as she took his arm and walked with him up the walkway towards the building. "I'll sleep better knowing for myself that you made it to your apartment in one piece."

"You worry too much," Wilson told her, too drunk to see the irony. "It'll g-give you wrinkles and g-grey hair."

"That's what hair dye and Botox are for," she quipped. "Believe me, if worry alone was going to do all of that, I'd look like I was eighty just from worrying about what chaos House was going to start in my hospital every day."

That brought a chuckle out of the oncologist. They managed to reach the Loft without too much trouble. Wilson fumbled with his keys a little bit before finding the one he wanted. Unlocking the door, he pushed the door open and staggered inside. He turned to look at his boss, who was still in the corridor.

"You want to c-come in for a while?" he asked her politely, swaying a little on his feet.

Cuddy smiled and shook her head. "I'll have to take a rain-check. I should be heading back home to Lucas and Rachel. Are you going to be all right?"

"Yeah…yeah I will," Wilson told her. "I'm just g-gonna go to bed."

"Good idea," she told him approvingly. She took a step towards the oncologist and gave him a small kiss on his cheek. "Good night. It's going to be alright."

He nodded, smiling fondly. "Goodnight, Lisa." He shut the door and she heard the dead-bolt slide shut. For a few moments she just stood there, feeling a little dazed. House and Wilson, in love—it was impossible. House, known for his female strippers and prostitutes, and his past infatuation with her, and Wilson, married three times, several girlfriends in between and known as 'the Panty Peeler' among the nursing staff at PPTH—it just seemed like a ridiculous notion. Yet, then again, maybe it didn't. There had been rumors over the years….

She shook her head and headed for the elevator.


	11. Chapter 11 Part 1 Ch 10

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **Hi all! I'm sorry it's been so long since my last update! I had "At The Spectra" to complete and then my entry to greglovesjimmy's Slash Porn/Kink fest to do. Now that those are out of my way and I can focus on Resurrection! Just a little filler chapter but there are a couple of questions I've been asked that get answered here. So, on with the show!

Just a reminder that I did go through this before posting but I am notorious for missing mistakes and only noticing them after, so when you find them, be merciful!

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part One: The Dying Time**

**Chapter Ten: Wednesday, May 26, 2010; 9:30 A.M.**

Dr. Olivia Hutton sat at her desk, catching up on some overdue charting when a heavy knock sounded on her door. She smiled, recognizing the knock pattern.

"It's open, Darryl," she called out, not looking up from what she was writing. He was right on schedule; he had said that he would be by at nine-thirty to talk with her before they went to see House. The diagnostician was to be transferred back to Mayfield later that afternoon but the older psychiatrist had meetings all afternoon and would be unavailable to see their patient then and there.

Nolan entered, shutting the door behind him. He took a seat in a leather-backed chair in front of her and was quiet until she closed the file she was working on and set it aside.

"Good morning," he greeted with a smile. He looked wide awake but his face looked a little more drawn than usual and he was pale, if such a thing was even possible for the man.

"Good morning," Hutton returned with a warm grin. "You're looking good…how are you _feeling_?"

"Better, thank you," he told her. "Of course, that's not hard compared to yesterday."

"I thought you had your diabetes under better control, my friend," she told him, setting her pen down and appraising him with a clinical eye. "How long were you unconscious before Betty found you?"

"About twenty minutes," he answered. Hutton released a low whistle.

"You're lucky you hadn't already lapsed into a deeper coma," she told him, frowning with concern. Nolan had late-onset Type I Diabetes, otherwise known as Juvenile Diabetes because its onset usually afflicted people from infancy to their early twenties, only rarely after that. Most adults who experienced onset after that age were sufferers of Type II diabetes which was usually much more manageable with diet and exercise than Type I, which usually required the sufferer to receive insulin by pills or injection to supplement his or her body's supply due to the pancreas's inability to produce a sufficient amount of its own. Type II was usually related to insulin resistance rather than an inadequacy of insulin supply. Nolan had developed Type I insulin-dependent diabetes in his late forties, an extremely unusual occurrence. Usually it was under control and being managed well. Yesterday had been an exception.

"That's what the ER doc told Betty and I when I came to."

"So what do you take, again?" she asked, sitting back in her chair.

"Lente-L and Novolog," Nolan told her, shaking his head. "This is the first time I've had an occurrence. I still can't tell you how I managed to screw up the dosage—I've only done it a million times; now Betty is hovering to make certain that I don't screw up again."

"Well, can you blame her?" the younger psychiatrist asked. "You could have died! If she hadn't forgotten her purse at home you'd have lapsed into a coma with no one to rush you to the hospital for hours! I think I'd be checking up on you for a while, too, if I were her. You're lucky to have her around to take care of you!"

"And who takes care of you?" Nolan threw in knowingly, giving her a serious look.

Hutton wasn't about to be pulled into another lecture about her love life today. "_I_ do," she told him. "And Stephania and David help from time to time. I'm happy with my life, Darryl, so let's not get into that again today, okay? Besides, you're here to talk about House. On that note, I forgive you for being unavailable to get your approval for his transfer here. I thought you were taking a spur of the moment day off without telling anyone about it and I had determined to give you quite the lecture the next time I spoke to you. Glad I don't have to."

"I know you gave me the short story of what happened over the phone, but I'll confess to not remembering too much of anything anybody told me yesterday," the older psychiatrist said with a rueful smirk. "Fill me in again, if you would."

Hutton briefed him on House's day yesterday including most recent suicide attempt and their need to transfer him to St. Luke's for the transfusion.

"By the way," Hutton said as she finished off her summary, "remind me later to talk you about some of the policies you have going on there at Mayfield, Darryl. I think a few of them could use a little, shall we say, revamping."

Nolan apparently ignored her comment. Instead he frowned and shook his head in dismay. "An upholstery tack…that man's mind never stops working!"

"I suspect that's part of his problem," she said, sighing. "His mind probably replays all of the events that have brought him to the place he is now to the point where he obsesses over the negative, hits bottom and seeks relief the only way _he_ sees it can be obtained. His brilliance is a gift, but also, I would imagine, a curse. So what do you think? Is a shift in medication a route you want to consider? Or something else?"

Nolan pondered her question for a while and then threw out, "You say he appeared to be genuinely enjoying the exercise yesterday morning?"

"Yes," Hutton answered with a nod. "He was smiling quite a bit when he thought I wasn't looking and at one point I heard him chuckle. He was actually quite playful and competitive. However…."

"What?" Nolan demanded, noticing her hesitation.

"After we were done and I was escorting him back to his room, I asked him if working out with me four mornings a week would appeal to him. He was surprised that I would be willing to come in on my day off just to spend time with him, and his entire demeanor changed from one of good-spirits to depression again."

"He hasn't exactly had the support of many people in his life," the older psychiatrist told her. "Your willingness to sacrifice a bit of your personal time to be with him is something he's not all that accustomed to and he felt overwhelmed by it."

"Darryl, I've read your notes, but I need you to flesh out some of that for me. What are his most significant relationships and how has he expressed them in session? I'm especially curious about those in his everyday circle of contacts."

"We're talking about nearly fifty sessions of discussion that you want me to recall," he told her, raising an eyebrow. "I'm getting old, Liv. My memory isn't what it used to be."

"I don't need minute details," Hutton argued with an amused smirk, "just a little more info than what is in the file. Okay, let me make it easier for you—what has he said about his relationship with Dr. James Wilson? In the file you describe him as House's best friend and only friend of the past two decades and that House is very fond of him and trusts him more than practically anyone else he knows. You've also mentioned that there have been difficulties in their relationship in the past, citing a couple of notable incidences including House's involvement in the death of Wilson's girlfriend two years ago which nearly caused the destruction of their friendship and most recently a rift that has taken place between House and Wilson over the issue of Wilson's new girlfriend; you mention the fact that House, who had been staying with Wilson as a condition of his release from Mayfield last fall was recently asked to move out by Wilson because his girlfriend was going to be moving in with him and that this had a negative impact on House but not as a significant one as you had first suspected; that all could use a little explaining."

Nolan took in a deep breath and began, "Greg met James nineteen, twenty years ago at a medical conference in New Orleans. James had just received divorce papers and went to a bar to drown his miseries and Greg was in the same bar. James was quite drunk and another patron upset him, and a series of events resulted in him beginning a bar brawl that caused everyone involved to be arrested and thrown into jail. Greg had managed to avoid arrest and later bailed James out of jail because he found himself curious about the younger man, stating that he wasn't boring. A friendship developed. Eventually James was hired on at Princeton-Plainsboro where Greg was already Head of Diagnostic Medicine and their friendship deepened. At the time of the infarction Greg was living with a woman whom he felt had betrayed him by approving a surgical procedure that he didn't want, which resulted in his disability and chronic pain. She left him shortly after and Wilson moved in with House and was his primary care giver during his recovery and physiotherapy.

"That experience deepened the bond between the two of them so that they were basically each other's best friends, perhaps even closer than brothers. Their friendship was strained several times, usually attributable to House's Vicodin addiction and the impact it had on James. The biggest threat to their friendship was the events surrounding the accidental death of James' girlfriend Amber, whom House didn't like and, I believe, was jealous of."

"Yes," Hutton agreed, "I read the events surrounding that and the reconciliation of House and Wilson thereafter."

"Greg mentioned several times how betrayed and rejected he felt when James left after Amber's death," Nolan related, continuing. "My impression was that it was extremely emotionally traumatic for him; he felt, and perhaps justifiably so, that James was his only friend in the world and that his leaving nearly drove him crazy—his words. My interpretation was that he was heartbroken, but Greg would never admit to anything so emotional. It was actually the death of Greg's father that reunited them, but Greg said that they never really returned to the same intimacy that they had experienced before Amber came into the picture. Greg's first breakdown occurred and James was the one who brought him to Mayfield for treatment. Following treatment, as you mentioned, Greg was released as an inpatient on the condition that he not live alone. I had suggested a sober-living halfway house but Greg refused that so after a few conversations James agreed to have Greg move in with him during his outpatient recovery."

"You say it like he didn't really want House to move in with him but then gave in under pressure," Hutton pointed out, frowning.

"During my telephone conversations with him, he seemed to be quite…hesitant about it, but wasn't pressured into it," Nolan defended. "However, Greg's interpretation of his hesitance was that he didn't really want to have him there, that he was a burden to his friend. Obviously that had a negative impact on Greg's self-esteem and engendered a great deal of anxiety within him."

"I would imagine," the female psychiatrist acknowledged, shaking her head. "If I were in his place, I would feel very invalidated and unwanted. To feel that way with someone who is supposed to be your best friend would be very difficult, to say the least."

Nodding, Nolan told her, "Over the next few months things began to get better between them, or at least that's what Greg believed. He expressed that he felt they were returning to that same level of friendship that had existed a few years ago and was quite excited about it. I noticed that during that time period he seemed to be improving a great deal, opening up more, trusting people more and being willing to take recommendations and complete the assignments I gave him. I was quite encouraged by it…however, that didn't last very long. James' first ex-wife, Samantha Carr, contacted him and they began to date again. Greg had expressed that he was very concerned that she would hurt James as badly as or even more so than she had the first time around."

Hutton sat forward in her chair, suddenly intensely interested. "This Samantha…she was the same wife that served Wilson divorce papers at the New Orleans conference where he and House met, wasn't she?"

Nolan nodded in confirmation. "Greg had developed an intense dislike for her over the years as his friendship with James grew and he told House about the hurt he had experienced while married to her. Greg is very protective of those he cares about, so when James began seeing her again, Greg tried to convince James that it was a mistake."

"I'd have to agree with him," Hutton admitted. "It was very sudden at very least."

"Yes," Nolan agreed, "when persuasion failed, Greg turned to trying to break James and Samantha up, but his efforts only resulted in alienating him from James, who was determined not to allow anything destroy this relationship. Once again, I sensed that Greg was quite jealous of James' relationship and was hurt by the way James began to distance himself from him, just as Greg feels he always does every time he begins a new relationship with a woman. In this case, at least, I have to agree with him that that was true. In our last session, he told me that Wilson had admitted to him that he had paid House's staff to take him out at night to keep Greg out of his and his girlfriend's hair."

"Unbelievable!" was the female psychiatrist's reaction to that. "I can only imagine how rejected and hurt that must have made House feel! It's bad enough to do that to someone you call your friend, but to tell that person that that's what you're doing is just adding insult to injury!" She shook her head, feeling outraged at the way her patient had been treated by his so-called best friend.

Nolan didn't comment on her reaction. "Shortly after that, James asked House to move out so that Samantha could move in. He said that she didn't like him but pretended to in front of Wilson and had somehow convinced him that if Greg remained in the loft he would try to break them up, and Wilson gave in to her desire to have Greg leave. Greg claimed, however, that he had stopped trying to interfere in their relationship by that point because he knew it was only causing a huge rift between him and James again. Greg has said several times over the past year that he wants James to be happy, and has questioned whether his friendship with him makes James happy or makes him miserable. He also commented that no matter what he does, he's never good enough for James."

"Gee," Hutton said sardonically, "I wonder where on earth he got that idea. What I don't understand is why you mentioned in your notes that you felt that House's decline was due more to his lingering feelings for Lisa Cuddy, despite the fact that she had been involved with another man for almost a year and had distanced herself from House, presumably to discourage any further romantic overtures from him, than his disintegrating relationship with Wilson, which seems to me to be a significant influence from what you've just told me."

"Throughout our last session, though most of it was centered on James, Greg insisted that it wasn't an issue, that James wasn't the problem; his story about his case involved his nearly obsessive quest to retrieve the book written by Cuddy's great-grandfather that had been pawned. He said he was saving it to give to her on a special occasion, but hadn't yet. It was obvious to me that the book symbolized his strong, unresolved feelings for Cuddy."

"But you wrote in your notes that he denied that he was still harboring feelings for her and that the book was simply part of everything else of his that had been pawned on him by this…Juan friend of his that he wanted back," Hutton objected, frowning in disagreement. "It seems to me that the issue with Wilson was a greater stumbling block for him than his feelings for Cuddy were. From your notes I got the distinct impression that House had moved on and stopped pursuing her months before and that their interactions were strictly professional following that. His life had been radically thrown into turmoil with the return of Samantha and Wilson's kicking him out. I can't believe you fell for his deflections and denial like that! Shame on you, Darryl!"

Nolan smiled ruefully and lowered his head briefly. "I wouldn't outright write off unresolved feelings for Cuddy but you're right-I screwed up, Liv. I totally misread everything and injected my own theory instead of looking more deeply into what he was saying and how he was saying it."

"Or what he wasn't saying," she added with an understanding smile. Nolan nodded.

She sighed and then took a deep breath. Things were looking a whole lot more complicated than they had originally. She enjoyed a challenge, but this looked like it was going to be quite the undertaking—not that that changed her mind about treating House in the slightest. Indeed, it only motivated her more to help him find his way out of the mire of rejection and pain he was lost in.

"One more thing before we visit him," she told her mentor and friend. "I think there may have been a change in the relationship dynamics between Wilson and House since your last session with him."

Nolan frowned slightly, "How so?"

Hutton hesitated a moment before telling him, "Were you aware of the fact that House and Wilson are in love with each other?"

Nolan reacted like he had been slapped, "_What_?"

"I heard both of them confess their love for each other yesterday when Wilson came up here to sign consent forms and visit him," Hutton revealed, and then proceeded to relate to him what she had witnessed between the two of them and Wilson's reaction following their encounter.

"That is definitely new," Nolan commented, appearing stunned. "My god, did I ever make the wrong call! I had always suspected that Greg's feelings for James went beyond the platonic but he has never admitted that to me and I didn't believe it went beyond a sexual attraction. He certainly never mentioned that James was in love with _him_. In fact, the opposite was true."

"Well, I think that Wilson's recognition of his feelings for House was something that occurred quite recently, perhaps even after House's suicide attempts considering the fact that he was still involved with Samantha the last time you had a therapy session with House," she commented. "He did tell House at some point that it was over between her and him and that he had made a mistake but as I told you, House is, at present, unprepared to accept and forgive Wilson. It seems obvious to me that that is a huge influence on House's suicidal behavior. If having Wilson reject him by asking him to leave the apartment they shared confirmed in House's mind that not only didn't Wilson love him, but that he is ultimately unlovable, that kind of heartbreak may have proven to be too much for him to bear." Hutton couldn't help but feel badly for the diagnostician, understanding how painful it was to be in love with someone who rejected you.

"Thank you for informing me of that," the older psychiatrist told her appreciatively as he rose from his seat. "I think I want to speak with him before I decide whether to change his medication therapy."

She nodded, rising from her desk and stepping around it. "Let's go," Hutton said and they left her office together.

Along the way Nolan asked her, "I noticed that you refer to Greg by his last name. Why is that?"

"I asked him what he preferred to be called," Hutton explained with a shrug. "He told me that he'd prefer it if I called him 'House'. It's his name; he should have the choice of what he wants people to call him. I want him to feel comfortable around me so that eventually I'll be able to earn his trust. It's the small courtesies that go a long way towards that."

"Interesting," the older psychiatrist commented, but that was all. Hutton smiled to herself, knowing that tone of voice. He disagreed with her but it wasn't important enough to him to argue about with her. Nolan was one of the best therapists she knew but she had to admit that he could be too set in his ways sometimes.

At House's room, she knocked lightly on the closed door. It was opened by the nurse on watch who immediately allowed them entrance and then left the room. House was still sleeping. He remained on a saline drip which would be removed soon in preparation for his transfer back to Mayfield. The heart monitor was still on but the volume on the alarm was turned right down to make it easier for him to sleep. He no longer had need of supplemental oxygen so the cannula was gone. He looked so peaceful while he slept. Hutton almost felt bad about having to wake him up.

"House," she said in a normal volume and tone of voice. "Wake up. House?"

He stirred slightly and then opened one eye, looking up at her. He quickly closed that eye, making a sour face, and rolled to face away from her in an attempt to keep sleeping.

"Come on, Sleeping Beauty," Hutton said sarcastically. "It's time to get up and face the day."

"No," House grumbled with his eyes still clamped shut. "Need more beauty sleep."

Nolan smiled as he sat down in the chair next to the bed. "Well, there's no arguing with that!" He agreed wryly.

"Shut up, Nolan!" House muttered and then sighed heavily and rolled back onto his back. He opened his eyes and blinked against the light in the room as they adjusted to the illumination level around him.

"Good Morning to you too!" the older psychiatrist returned pleasantly. Hutton grabbed the chair by the door and pulled it up closer to the bed before sitting down.

"Hutton," House mumbled, glaring at her, "did you have to bring Curly along with you? Morning already sucks enough without seeing his ugly face."

"Well," she responded with an amused smirk on her face, "We're not all raving beauties like you are first thing in the morning, House. Quit whining…you'd be up over two hours ago and finished on the tricycle already if you were back at Mayfield right now. Tell you what, if you play nice for the next few minutes I'll make certain you're brought pancakes and syrup from the cafeteria for breakfast."

"Maple syrup or chocolate syrup?" he asked petulantly, like the overgrown child he was.

"How about a little of both?" Hutton asked in response.

House reached for the control bar on the rail and brought the head of the bed up so that he was sitting nearly completely upright as a silent agreement to her terms. That didn't remove the scowl from his face, however.

"I take it this is my official chewing out," he said to Nolan and her. "I haven't any privileges yet so you can't take those away…I know! I get to spend a weak in solitary confinement!" His voice was so heavy with cynicism and it almost hurt Hutton's ears.

"Nobody is here to punish you, Greg," Nolan told him. "We're just trying to ascertain what needs to be done to not only protect you from yourself but to help you heal so that we don't have to protect you anymore."

"Not possible," the diagnostician told him, staring him down with cold blue eyes. "You'll slip up eventually."

"Hmm," Nolan hummed, nodding slowly and crossing his arms in front of himself. "I've a theory about your determination to commit suicide and what is really behind it. Would you care to hear it?"

House rolled his eyes, "Not really but I know you'll tell me anyway, so go ahead and get it over with so I can mock you."

As usual, Nolan wasn't intimidated by his patient. "I think you don't really want to die, Greg, but you're terrified of living. You can't see a way of avoiding the terror as long as you're alive so you think killing yourself is the only solution. Your reasoning is faulty, though. Your terror can't be avoided—in fact, it shouldn't be avoided. You can fight your way through the terror and be victorious over it, but it's not a fight for a coward. Are you a coward, Greg?"

Hutton watched the faces of the two men as they interacted. She felt a little uneasy about the approach the older psychiatrist was taking but held her tongue in check. She would wait to see where things went from here.

House stared back at Nolan; both his eyes and his countenance were stone cold.

"Obviously I am," he replied softly, his voice carrying an obsidian edge to it. "According to your theory. It's a load of bullshit, but hey, you're the shrink. It's not like you've ever been wrong before."

"I take it you're referring to our last session before your first suicide attempt," the other man stated calmly. "Tell me exactly how I was wrong, Greg. You never did tell me before you stormed out of my office; you simply insisted that I was. Cast some light on that for me."

House's eyes looked to Hutton almost pleadingly. He did look frightened under that fragile angry mask of his.

"Perhaps by telling Dr. Nolan where he erred it may help us understand why you are feeling and behaving the way you currently are," she told him, raising an eyebrow. "It can be extremely frustrating to be misunderstood by one's therapist, but therapists are only human—we can't read minds and sometimes we aren't able to read between the lines either. By helping us understand where Dr. Nolan went astray on his read, you help us get better at what we do."

"Do you think I'm a coward?" House demanded of her angrily.

Hutton smiled slightly, meeting his eyes. She shook her head slowly. "No, I don't. A coward would have given up ten odd years ago after the infarction and the loss of the woman he loved because of it. A coward would have quit practicing medicine after being shot twice by an angry family member of a former patient, and never would have risked his life and mind by taking the Ketamine therapy. He also wouldn't have stuck to his principles when every member of his team quit on him all at once, nor hired yet another team and kept on going. A coward doesn't risk his life to save the life of a woman who wouldn't have returned the favor were the tables turned-not just once but _twice_. Sure, you did it for your best friend, not for her—it doesn't matter why you did it, just that you did. A coward doesn't give up on his friendship with someone but does whatever he can to save it and he doesn't face his inner demons, kick a serious addiction and stay clean when the odds are sorely against him. A coward doesn't yet again risk his own life while trying to save the life—and limb—of someone whom everyone else has given up on and abandoned."

House's face was grim, and he looked down at his hands when she had begun listing off the things that a coward does and doesn't do. "I didn't save her life," he told her softly. "No matter what I did she died anyway."

"I know," Hutton told him, nodding in empathy. "Doctors aren't all-knowing and all-powerful, House, you know that. Your patient died, and it sucks that she did, but it wasn't your fault and it doesn't change the fact that you showed incredible courage and character trying to help her. If you faced all of those terrifying experiences with courage, you can do it with the ones facing you right now."

House said nothing for a moment or two. He kept taking furtive glances from his hands to her face and then sighed. He looked up at Nolan with a look of rebellious determination.

"You were too easy to fool, Nolan," the diagnostician told him, smirking. "You believed me when I said that my problem wasn't with Wilson and then went on to say that I pursued that book written by Cuddy's great-grandfather because I was in love with her and upset that she was moving in with Lucas. My problem was related to Wilson and as for Cuddy…well, any feelings I had for her died the day she sent me on a wild goose chase on Thanksgiving and she buried them when she told me at the crane accident that she not only didn't love me, but that she was done with me and was moving on with her life, just like Wilson was with Sam."

"Why didn't you simply correct me when I erred?" Nolan asked him. "Why were you trying to deflect instead of being honest?"

The diagnostician shrugged, appearing to be searching for the right words for his explanation. He rubbed his face with a hand.

"I didn't want to admit to myself that my alienation from Wilson was what was destroying me, much less you," House said. "Because if I acknowledged that I'd have to accept the fact that I would never be able to be happy, that I've failed. Shit." House pinched the bridge of his nose so that he could discreetly wipe away the tears that were beginning to form in his eyes.

"Don't bury your feelings," the older psychiatrist told him quietly.

"Why not?" House snapped, glaring at him. "Feeling them is what has got me to where I am right now—miserable!"

"Think of it terms of frozen dog shit," Hutton interjected, earning looks from both men in the room. She proceeded to explain. "I spent a couple of years living with my aunt and uncle in North Dakota. The winters there are notoriously long, hard and frigid. While I lived there one of my chores was to pooper scoop behind their Dalmation wherever he did his business in the yard. In the winter if I didn't do it right after the dog went, if I put it off for a couple of hours, that stuff froze solid and got stuck in the rest of the snow and ice and became impossible to clean up.

"Now, while it was freezing cold outside, it wasn't that big of a deal, really. You couldn't smell it, it didn't wreck your shoes if you accidentally stepped on it and after a snowfall you couldn't even see it anymore. I was eleven at the time, I hated picking up dog shit, so in the winter I let it slide for those very reasons."

"Didn't that anger your aunt and uncle?" Nolan asked, genuinely curiously.

"If it did, they never let on that it did," Hutton replied, smirking. "All that was said to me was that my procrastination would catch up to me come spring. Sure enough, spring came around and all of the snow and ice—and shit—began to melt. The yard began to reek and with all of the white stuff no longer around to hide the mess it became very apparent that that Dalmation had serious digestive problems—and that I had a smelly, sticky, disgusting mess to clean up that had accumulated all of those winter months that I put off cleaning it up. But I made it through it—barely—and the yard became more esthetically pleasing again."

"Interesting metaphorical analogy," House told her, still looking at her with a combination of incredulity and amusement.

"Thank you," Hutton said. "Your feelings had been stored up and put-off for so long that it became easy to pretend that they weren't there, that they had no impact on you and that so long as you couldn't feel them they couldn't hurt you. Booze, opiates, sarcasm, anger, deflection and denial—they all gave you the false belief that you were handling things very well. What you failed to realize was that every time you stuffed back your feelings, the greater the accumulation became until you faced a breakdown, the sun came out and melted the shit and there was so much of it there that you had to deal with you were quickly overwhelmed. Hence the hallucinations and delusions—they were simply manifestations of stuffed emotions that couldn't be held at bay anymore without damaging you worse than you already were. So the fail-safe on your brain went off.

"You had this pile of emotions and the issues behind them to shovel away and you only had a little garden trowel to use to do it. You lacked the skills to deal with those issues without the numbness of drugs. But you began to learn some of the skills you needed to tackle the pile. Doing so was painful and hard and stunk like hell and the worst part was that just as you were making head way, life showed up and shit on the grass again. Not only that, but then the neighbors began bringing over their dogs—or issues—to shit on your lawn as well and you became overwhelmed again.

"That's not your fault—it's natural. And of course you looked at the Vicodin and the freezing it provided your mind and soul last time and were tempted by it—just like I wanted winter to come back in a hurry when the shit pile in my aunt and uncle's yard melted. But you held off with sheer force of will but when you grew tired you began to look for an escape route again. Instead of coming to Dr. Nolan and telling him that you were feeling overwhelmed and seeking out further skills and tools—like an electric fence to keep the neighbor dogs out or a bigger shovel or even a plow—to deal with it better, you hid the truth because you felt like a failure and didn't want any one know that and believe the same thing about you. Then that Dalmatian came after a particularly big meal and shit a huge pile in front of you and you just couldn't take it anymore and decided to run away and hide rather than continue shoveling and continue feeling like you weren't getting anywhere."

House rolled his eyes and then chuckled derisively. "I have to tell you, Hutton," he said to her, "I'm never again going to be able to see a pile of dog shit and not automatically think of you!"

Hutton laughed with him. "That's fine, House," she told him, "just so long as when you think of me you remember to deal with that pile right away and not let it build up! Tell us now what you should have told Nolan back then. Let us help you tackle that pile."

House sighed, rubbing his eyes. Hutton didn't know if she managed to get through to him or not. For his sake she hoped so.


	12. Chapter 12 Part 1 Ch 11

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **An emotional but important chapter concerning House's willingness to keep living or not.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part One: The Dying Time**

**Chapter Eleven: Wednesday, May 26, 2010; 10:30 A.M.**

House stared at Hutton for a long time. She was an interesting individual—quirky, unconventional and humorous, but somehow those qualities seemed to work for her. She was serious about what she did, had a sound medical background, was capable of empathizing well with her patients, could stand up for herself and yet could laugh at herself at the same time. That and her sweet and sexy appearance made for a very impressive package. No one was that unassumingly impressive without there being a few skeletons rattling around in her closets, a few glaring character flaws that she was capable of masking skillfully. She was not boring—just like Wilson—and House was determined to find out what occupied the dark side of her simply because he was curious.

Though strange, her analogy had been sound. She'd been able to see past his pretense to the heart of the matter. Hutton may have been Nolan's pupil, but there were a few things that he would do well to learn from her; in House's estimation, at any rate.

The diagnostician sighed, annoyed with the fact that she was right. He had avoided telling the truth to Nolan because doing so would have been admitting defeat in his own eyes. Then again, what the hell was it that he had been doing for the past few days if not claiming defeat and giving up? Hutton had told him that he was courageous but he didn't feel that way. He felt like a coward, too weak to battle his demons any longer. She seemed to believe in his ability to keep fighting, but he didn't know what she was basing that on. Perhaps she was simply blowing smoke up his ass in hopes of starting a fire in him to keep persevering. Or, it was possible that she was capable of seeing something he was unable to see in his 'state of mind'; House knew that his thinking hadn't been the clearest and most logical for at least a month now, if not longer. He knew he was depressed and as a doctor he was very much aware of the effect depression had on the reasoning centers of the brain.

She had told him to let her have hope for the both of them for now, to trust her. House had no reason to trust her—he barely knew her—but then again, he had no reason not to, either. She was uncharted territory, an undiscovered country and he had to decide if he was confident enough in her to take a chance that she promised him something real to hold on to and fight for.

It didn't hurt that she was a hell of a lot prettier to look at that Nolan, either.

"Okay," the diagnostician told her in agreement and then directed his attention to Nolan. "I have a serious problem; one that I don't think has a solution where I can come out a winner. It has to do with my friendship with Wilson."

Nolan nodded in encouragement. "Go on, Greg."

House took a deep breath and swallowed hard. "I'm pretty sure Hutton already has a good idea of what I'm about to talk about. Hell, she's probably already filled you in on the conversation Wilson and I had yesterday when he came up to sign waiver forms and see me."

"She's given me a general idea," Nolan admitted, glancing over at the female psychiatrist briefly. "You were told that she and I would be working together on your treatment, which by necessity involves communication of important information with each other. But you can rest assured that nothing that you tell either one of us goes beyond-."

"Yeah, yeah," House said impatiently, nodding. "I get it. When I have Wilson consult on a patient of mine that I suspect may have cancer I share with him pertinent information which remains between him and my team. I don't really have an issue with that." He sighed and took a deep breath. This was hard. Opening up was hard—he didn't like having his soul open for observation. "Wilson and I have been friends for nearly twenty years—you know that. What you don't know is that for at least the last five of those I've been…in love with him."

Nolan was quiet a moment, and then asked, "Have you known all that time that you were in love with James?"

"Subconsciously, yes, but I didn't come to a conscious realization until Wilson left after Amber's death," the diagnostician told him. "When I thought that he hated me and would never be able to forgive me for my involvement in the chain of events that led to her death, I realized how…lost I felt without him. I guess you could say that I was…." His voice trailed off as he searched for the right word to describe what he was.

"Heartbroken?" Nolan offered. House glared at him, working hard not to show his embarrassment.

"I don't suppose you could find a word that sounds even more…girly, could you?" He muttered, frowning. "Wilson kidnapped me to force me to go to my father's funeral. I guess that was what started our reconciliation, but it took a hell of a long time for things to become comfortable between us and we still weren't as close and at ease with each other as we once were. I knew that no matter what he said, Wilson still blamed me for Amber's death. Then I went squirrely and ended up in Mayfield.

"Wilson drove me to the hospital. He wanted to help me in with my suitcase but I didn't want him to come with me. I didn't want any part of him in my mind to be part of that place. I didn't want him to look at me and picture me in the nuthouse." House sighed. "When he left I didn't know if I was ever going to see him again."

"I recall you mentioning that in session," Nolan acknowledged with a nod, "but you wouldn't tell me why you thought that way. Do you know why?"

Staring at a spot on the wall visible just above Hutton's left shoulder, the diagnostician shrugged. "He left the first time, he said, because he had recognized in some ways that Amber was a female version of me, a 'socially acceptable' version for him to be dating…alright, that part I added, but it is true nonetheless. When she died he nearly went over the deep end in grief, and seeing me not only reminded him of what he'd lost but also what he could lose—me—and he seemed to be afraid facing the possibility of going through that same grief again if I were in his life. Add a healthy dose of guilt for asking me to risk my life by undergoing the DBS, which nearly killed me, and he ran away from facing it all. I figured if he left over the fear of losing me once, after he knew I wasn't going to die, there was a pretty good chance he'd run away when the prospect of losing me to madness hit him square in the face."

He shifted uncomfortably in bed. He loathed baring his soul the way he was, leaving himself so open to being mocked and hurt. Unable to fathom why exactly he was willingly revealing these things, he set to work in the back of his mind at finding the answer. Perhaps it was because he knew he was partially to blame for the miscommunication between Nolan and him. Or, perhaps it was having Hutton there, listening. He had this need to make her understand him; she was basically the last source of any hope he had left of getting himself out of this cess pool that was his life.

Damnit! It seemed that Nolan was right after all; House didn't want to be dead—he wanted to run away from his sorry excuse for a life. He wanted an end to the pain, both physical and emotional. He didn't want to face the very real possibility that he was incapable of ever being truly happy. He didn't want to have to live a future where he was all alone.

"But James didn't run away after you were admitted to Mayfield," the male psychiatrist pointed out. In fact, he agreed to have you move in with him once you were released."

"Only because you coerced him into it," House pointed out glumly. "He did it out of guilt, not because he really wanted me there."

"James wasn't coerced into anything," Nolan told him, smiling slightly. "As I told you at the time it was taking place, his reservations about taking you in had nothing to do with him not wanting you around. He told me that he didn't know if he was knowledgeable enough to help you in your recovery. In his own words, he said that he 'didn't want to screw up and end up making things worse' for you."

"That's what he told you," House argued, "because he knew you'd tell me what he said. Wilson isn't above lying in order to keep up his appearance of being a good and generous guy."

"You mean he isn't?" Hutton asked him, cutting in. House looked at her. She had a frown on her face, one that is born out of concern as well as indignation. He almost believed that she really did care. _Almost_.

"Yes, usually he is," House acknowledged. "Wilson is capable of more compassion and concern for others than anyone else I know. He lives to be needed. He's also incredibly selfish, conceited and overly concerned about other people's opinions of him. In my case, it's a distinct possibility that he didn't want the hassle of having me move in with him but he knew that since he was known by almost everyone at work as my best friend by saying no he would come off looking like a jerk instead of good ol' reliable Wilson, a great best buddy. He probably said yes just so nobody saw him that way."

"But you don't know that for certain, do you?" She asked him. "He never actually said that to you, did he?"

House looked away from her gaze. "No," he admitted. He didn't know it with one hundred percent certainty, and Wilson hadn't said anything to that effect—but he had past experience on his side. He knew Wilson probably better than anyone, even Wilson himself, perhaps. That's the way Wilson thought and operated.

"Is it possible you're basing your suspicion on more assumption than actual evidence?" Hutton asked, her voice softening a little.

"I'm basing it on having known Wilson for two decades and observing just about everything he has ever said or done," the diagnostician answered with a little more hostility than he'd intended. He hated having his deductions questioned. "Wilson is a creature of habit and has his own ways of doing things. Sometimes his OCD traits drive me crazy. He wouldn't just change the way he is because I'm being released from a psychiatric hospital."

"Why not?" the female psychiatrist asked, shrugging. "Allow me to play devil's advocate for a few moments, okay? How do you know that Wilson's motives for taking you in after your discharge were less than pure? Just a few moments ago you were relating to us how Wilson was terribly worried about losing you and suffering like he did when he lost Amber. That tells me that he cares very deeply for you. Perhaps instead of running away when you were admitted to Mayfield, he had time to work on his fear and decided to do the opposite—to be there for you, instead. His hesitance at first may have had more to do with feelings of his own inadequacy at being the kind of friend you needed him to be at that time. Isn't that a possibility?"

"No," House told her flatly with absolutely no hesitation in his voice whatsoever.

"Why not?" Hutton pressed, and for a moment House felt like she was testing him somehow, that how he responded would tell her something about him that he himself didn't even know.

_Quit being so paranoid_, he told himself before answering her question aloud, "Because Wilson has never questioned himself about his competency as a friend. He has always considered himself to be poster child of good friendship."

"You sound very angry about that, House," she told him gently, nodding her head in acknowledgement of his answer. "Are you? Or do you feel some other way about it?"

House glared at her for a moment, unable to find a suitably sarcastic reply to throw at her. Instead he looked away and said nothing. Damn, she could be so…irritating sometimes!

"So what about after you moved in with him?" Nolan asked, taking the reins back again. "For the first five, six months you seemed quite positive about your living arrangements and your relationship. I remember being very encouraged from the progress I saw during that period."

The diagnostician wasn't certain that he wanted to talk anymore about it. It hurt too much. It was like having open-heart surgery without the anesthetic. Melting shit, he reminded himself.

"I was positive, at first at least. We were spending more time together than ever before and I really thought, for a while, that perhaps my feelings in our relationship were not entirely one sided. Especially after the LOD procedure for his self-important jerk of a friend. In fact, I was actually feeling…hopeful…that he might be in love with me, too."

"Why was that?" the older psychiatrist asked, his voice smooth and soft like velvet. House thought once more that Nolan had the perfect voice for his chosen profession. It had the effect of calming and easing the information out of a person without even being aware that it was happening.

House glanced over at Hutton; she hadn't moved in her seat for a long time and she appeared to be completely transfixed on what he had to say. If Nolan had the perfect voice, then Hutton had the perfect intensity and body language; it made him feel like everything he said was the most important information in the world to her and no matter what he said she would listen without criticizing.

"Does it matter why?" the diagnostician asked, frowning.

Nolan shrugged impassively. "I don't know…you tell me. Is it important?"

Frowning in frustration House set his jaw. How the fuck was he supposed to know what was important and what wasn't? He was the patient in this situation, not the therapist!

Appearing to sense his frustration Hutton spoke up again. "I'd be interested in knowing what happened to give you that hope, House. That is, if you don't mind sharing it with me."

If she was lying about her interest, House couldn't tell. She had just given him a choice. He could choose to tell her, or say that he did mind and have the right to say nothing more. He wondered if that was done on purpose or if she had erred in some way. Nolan had always told him that he didn't have to talk if he didn't want to but the session would stall if he decided not to because the older man would remain silent until House either gave in and talked or their time ran out.

He turned not only his eyes to her but also shifted his entire body away from Nolan slightly and directed himself to her.

"Wilson was angry at Cuddy for the way she…hurt me like she did with Lucas," House told her, and there was hesitancy, a kind of shyness about the way he spoke. "He knew that she and Lucas were looking at a loft apartment to purchase and move into together because she had told him about it, knowing full well that he was on my side and that word of their decision would reach me through him eventually. She was either playing her little games again or she truly was so self-absorbed that she didn't realize what kind of position she was putting him into. She was using his ex-wife Bonnie as her realtor. To piss her off as punishment, he called Bonnie and offered the seller's price for the condo on the condition Cuddy wasn't told who stole the loft out from underneath her while she was mulling over the price. He did that for me, because, as he put it, 'she hurt [his] friend'."

"That must have made you feel pretty good," Hutton commented with a little smile, "that he would do such an extravagant thing on your behalf."

House nodded, his face remaining long and being devoid of any sign of happiness or joy whatsoever. "I thought it was his way of saying that it was _our_ home. That he _wanted_ me there. I obviously misunderstood."

"Was that the only indicator you saw of a possible mutual attraction?" the female psychiatrist asked him.

Shaking his head, House sighed, taking a deep breath, holding it in his mouth for a moment or two and then blowing it out forcefully. "There was also the Organ."

"The organ?" she echoed quizzically. "You mean, as in the musical instrument?"

House leered at her, smirking. "Exactly what kind of organ did you _think_ I meant, Hutton?"

"I plead the Fifth," she replied with a knowing grin and a slight blush that House couldn't help but think was cute. _Cute?_ Did he actually think that word? House didn't do 'cute'.

"Yes, the instrument," the diagnostician clarified. "He knows how much music means to me. It helps me think or, when I don't want to think, it helps me lose myself for a while. In my apartment my grand piano was sitting around gathering dust. He had told me that there was no room for it in the loft, which was ridiculous because there was plenty of room. He must have sensed my disappointment. While he let a designer furnish the loft he picked out the organ by himself and bought it for me because it was smaller than the piano but it was still something I could play. I knew that he definitely bought it for _me_ because he doesn't play. When he surprised me with it we just stared at each other for a considerably long time. I'm not good at verbally expressing myself to him, but I tried to tell him just how much it meant to me for him to do that. I wanted him to know….fuck. I sound like a fucking romance novel! I thought he was thinking the same things about me as I was about him. Once again I was wrong. I couldn't have been more wrong if I had tried."

"Why do you say that?" Hutton asked him, frowning in empathy with his hurt.

"A few weeks later he started seeing ex-wife number one," was the patient's reply; he was speaking barely above a murmur. "As usual with Wilson, he fell for Sam again fast, and also as usual he started pushing me aside and focusing on her. That's how it always is with him. He's happy with me when there's no one else, but as soon as another woman comes into his life, I get pushed to the back burner. When that relationship fails, and he needs a shoulder to cry on or a place to stay after he's been kicked out of his home, then he comes back to me. He only wants me when there is no other choice." House's voice broke on the last word he spoke. He swallowed hard and bit his lip to keep himself from tearing up. He wasn't going to break down and cry like a fucking baby in front of either psychiatrist again!

He turned to Nolan, channeling his sadness and hurt into anger, an emotion he was much more comfortable with.

"That was another thing you missed, Nolan," he told him, his blue eyes burning with an icy fire. "I told you that Wilson wasn't a consolation prize to me, and _he_ isn't. _I'm_ the fucking consolation prize! I've always been one to pretty much everybody I have ever known. Lydia…Cuddy, and Wilson." He felt the anger swelling but it was unstable as it kept trying to change back into heartache and try as he might House couldn't rein it in anymore! "I wasn't the consolation prize for Stacy…but I couldn't get over my hatred for what she did to me and I knew that if she left Mark for me we'd be happy for a little while, and then my anger and resentment would eventually show itself and she'd become miserable. She would have resented leaving Mark for me and she would have left and I would have been crushed again! But the people I don't want to push away fucking see me as a last fucking resort!" He was on the verge of screaming again but he couldn't help it. The shit was melting too fast for him to contain it. "I'm fucking tired of being the fucking booby prize! Why is it so hard for anyone to love me and pick me first just once! Why! Is that so fucking much to ask for?"

His screaming could be heard from the nursing unit and a nurse and a burly orderly came running. Nolan got to his feet in case it became necessary to react physically to the situation. Hutton, on the other hand stood up to approach him slowly.

House turned his face to her sharply when he noticed her approaching. "Why?" he screamed, tears now flowing but he was too out of control to even notice, much less try to hold them back. He felt like he could just jump out of his bed, throw everybody who tried to stop him aside and run as fast as a gimp was able from the hospital. Where, he didn't know. He just needed out. He needed to escape, to go and find somebody somewhere who would give a fuck about him anymore! He was afraid he would hurt Hutton, he was so angry and worked up. She kept approaching, however, cautiously but without fear. Why wasn't she afraid of him, House wondered, when he was completely terrified of himself?

Nolan was telling the nurse to bring one milligram of Ativan injectable while the orderly was moving towards him as well, but somehow in his hysterical state House could sense that he was a menace whereas Hutton wasn't.

House grabbed her arm desperately and pulled her down until she was practically lying on the bed with him. He heard the orderly order him to let her go, heard the nurse run back with a syringe, handing it to Nolan.

"Is it too much to ask?" House asked Hutton pleadingly, his eyes wild and his face only inches from hers.

Hutton turned towards the others in the room as they rushed to intercede and yelled, "Darryl, no! Please, no drugs! Everybody just stop where you are and back away! He's alright. I'm alright!" She turned her attention back to House and he felt her place a soft, cool hand on the one of his that gripped her arm. Her eyes trapped his gaze and held it. He was trembling from head to toe as adrenalin pumped through his veins but her touch and her calm stayed him from further action.

"House," she told him softly, and he was convinced of her sincerity, probably because he desperately needed to believe she cared. "It's _not_ too much to ask. It's _too little_ to ask for because you deserve to be treated so much better than you have been. You are special, you are worthy of being a priority in someone's life, and you are loveable! I'm not just saying that to calm you down. I _mean_ it, I really do."

House let go of her arm but she remained in contact with him by holding his hand a moment longer and sitting up on the edge of his bed. The diagnostician needed to be touched, ached for it. He knew it was impulsive and pathetic but he didn't care. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into an embrace, his head resting on her shoulder, his face buried in the crook of her neck. There was nothing sexual in the hug; he just needed the comfort of feeling someone else's arms wrapped around him. Hutton did just that, embracing him gently. He tightened his grip on her, afraid that at any moment she could disappear into thin air, just another hallucination, a delusion of being cared for. He didn't want her to run away and desert him too. House would do anything at that point if it meant he never had to be alone again.

"It's going to be okay," Hutton whispered soothingly. "You're alright, House. It's okay."

"Don't let go," he pled of her. "Please don't leave!"

The patient didn't see the tears stinging her eyes or the looks she and Nolan were exchanging over his shoulder. Nolan looked dumbstruck at how quickly she had managed to deescalate the situation and calm the diagnostician down. Embracing a patient was unorthodox to say the least, but not unheard of in certain forms of therapy.

House was anything but calm, though. Every nerve in his body was raw, every muscle tensed. He trembled uncontrollably, hiccupped from sobbing and literally clung onto her for dear life. His heart beat hard and rapid in his chest and the pulse of it throbbed in his head. His breathing had calmed down somewhat but was still fast, ragged and uneven.

"I'm not leaving until you're feeling safe enough to let go," she assured him gently. "Just relax, House. You're alright, you're safe and you're cared about. You don't have to worry about being all alone anymore. Relax. Take in some deep breaths through your nose and out through your mouth. Just relax your head on my shoulder…it's okay, I don't mind."

"I can't take it anymore," he confided, whispering. "I can't go on as second choice anymore."

"I know," Hutton acknowledged. "You really _can't_—and you don't have to. It's time for you to make a decision. You need to make some radical changes in your life…but it can only happen if you're willing. It's going to mean a great deal of change for you. Are you willing to stop the self-destruction and work towards a life that is better than the one you've been enduring?"

The diagnostician nodded, relishing the warmth of her arms, the gentleness of her voice, the soft smell of lavender, vanilla and Ivory soap on her skin. House felt like he could stay there like that forever. There was nothing but care and comfort in this embrace and he needed it desperately. He felt himself relaxing gradually, calming physically and emotionally. Oh how he'd been longing for the physical touch of another human being that wasn't demanding, manipulating or begrudging! He couldn't remember when the last time it was that he'd been held that way.

"Yes," he murmured in response to her question, "I am." It was time to say 'enough is enough', to do things differently. He didn't know what that entailed exactly and he didn't care just then. He just knew that his life literally depended on it.

**End of Part One**


	13. Chapter 13 Part 2 Ch 1

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** House is over the worst, well, sort of. There's still some angst and drama ahead but it's a lot less depressing from this point on. Our favorite diagnostician has made the decision to work with Hutton and make some changes. We see what these changes are and what they'll mean as we read on. Of course there will be some Wilson—how could there not be! Sheesh—I need my Wilson fix from time to time! The emphasis is still House, however.

Just a reminder that while this story is 'Hilson', there will be other interactions and I won't promise a happy ending for everyone. I love happy endings, but in the words of the prophet Jagger, "You can't always get what you want". For those of you who like a little sick!Wilson in a fic, you may want to keep reading! That's it for spoilers! Enjoy!

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part Two: Transformation**

…_I hate to see you fall down._

_I'll pick you up off of the ground._

_I've watched the weight of your world come down,_

_And now it's your chance to move on._

_Change the way you've lived for so long._

_You'll find the strength you've had inside all along._

'_Cause life starts now._

_You've done all the things that could kill you somehow and you're so far down,_

_But you will survive it somehow because life starts now…._

_-"Life Starts Now"—Three Days Grace_

**Chapter One: Friday, May 28, 2010; 9:55 A.M.**

House was in the bathroom in his room, drying his short hair with a white hospital towel that smelled heavily of bleach and detergent. For the past two mornings Dr. Hutton had let him off the hook and didn't take him out for exercise first thing. He was still weak and exhausted from all of the trauma he had put himself through over the past ten days but she had told him that his luck ran out Saturday morning, although he had managed to finagle an extra hour of sleep from her; instead of eight o'clock she wouldn't be by until nine to escort him out of the building. House had honestly believed that she'd been lying when she had told him that she was going to come in on Saturdays just to exercise with him; he realized he'd been wrong. In spite of his disgust at having to rise so early on a Saturday, House was secretly looking forward to it. It was time he got to spend with another human being who was there because she wanted to be, not because it was her job or obligation. He hadn't experienced much of that since Amber's death.

Before that he and Wilson had hung out a fair amount outside of work because both had wanted to—that is, when Wilson wasn't married. After Wilson had fallen in love with Cutthroat Bitch and pushed him aside again, and then after her death which some people still pinned on House, Wilson had wanted less and less contact with House; he'd avoid him at times, hung out with him after House had hounded him enough to drive the oncologist insane and pushed the diagnostician onto Cuddy despite House's verbal and non-verbal reservations.

Things had been better right after House's release from his first stint in Mayfield and had moved in with Wilson and had remained good until right about the same time as the lockdown at the hospital when a baby went missing from a patient's room and a hunt was set into motion for it. It had been a miserable but illuminating experience for House but Wilson had come out of it distracted and distant towards the diagnostician. It was only a week or so later that Wilson had begun dating Sam and House's hope that Wilson was finally coming around to realize his feelings for the older man had come crashing to the ground.

There was a knock on his door; it was an orderly or a nurse, House knew. He was on Q-10; a staff member checked on him every ten minutes to make certain that he hadn't found another means to off himself. He didn't know how long he'd be at this level of observation but he hoped it wasn't for very long; he had barely slept the night before because the nurse on duty had been anything but discreet when he came in to ensure that the diagnostician was still alive. Knowing that it would depend upon his behavior, House was determined to keep himself in line for however long it took to be off of Q-Watch altogether.

"It's open, obviously," House called. The lock mechanism on his door had been disabled. Staff had a master key to get into the rooms anytime they needed to, but there was only one of those keys and it was held by the charge nurse on duty, for the security of patients' privacy and belongings. He or she would have to be contacted to come and unlock the door and if the patient inside attempted suicide, seconds counted.

The door opened, and Olivia Hutton poked her head in. The diagnostician was mildly surprised that she had come personally to escort him to his session.

"Ready to talk?" she asked him with a mild smile.

"No," House answered honestly. "But I don't have much choice if I want to get out of this place." He returned his towel to the bathroom. Ignoring the comb on the vanity he ran his fingers through his hair, shrugged and then returned to the doctor, whom had stepped just over the threshold. She held what looked like a picnic basket in her good hand.

"How'd you like to sit outside for our session?" she asked him. "It's a beautiful day and sunlight boosts Vitamin D which is vital for mental health."

"And causes skin cancer," he told her sourly.

"We'll stop at the nursing station for some sun block on our way out," she replied with mock-concern.

House shrugged and walked side by side with her to the nursing station where Hutton obtained a bottle of sun lotion; she held it out to House.

House shook his head, smirking. "I need to you apply it. My stitches make using my arms painful."

Instead of becoming incensed like most women would she smiled, tongue in cheek. "Either you apply it yourself or you risk cancer. It's up to you."

House was amused, but didn't want her to know it. He frowned and shook his head. "I hate that greasy stuff on my skin. I'll live dangerously."

Nodding, Hutton handed the bottle back to the nurse and then led them out of the building. They walked through one of the gardens that decorated the hospital property until they reached a bench that sat beneath a large maple, offering shade; the sun was intense and it was already very warm out.

The doctor opened the basket and pulled out a Tupperware container holding sliced banana and lemon loaves. She also pulled out napkins, a thermos and two Styrofoam cups. House's stomach began to rumble. So what if he'd just had breakfast—he was capable of eating anytime.

"Bribery," House commented, nodding approvingly. "I like it."

Hutton poured him a cup of steaming hot coffee, strong and black. "It's better than truth serum, isn't it? Sugar? Cream?"

"Sugar, thanks," he responded. She pulled out a couple of packets of sugar and a plastic spoon, handing them to House. He fixed his brew. He took note that she drank hers black. "Not that any of the doctors here would be so unethical," he quipped sarcastically.

Hutton took the empty sugar packets from him and put them into a small paper bag inside the basket. She opened the container with the loaf slices, setting it on the open space on the bench between them. It was an effective but unobtrusive barrier, House noted. Nolan had a coffee table between the chairs in his office to function in the same way.

House grabbed a couple of slices but the psychiatrist didn't. "Hmm. Good," he said with his mouthful.

"I'll let my daughter know that you approve," Hutton told him. "So how are you feeling today?"

"Peachy," he responded with false enthusiasm. "Got an accumulated total of twenty minutes sleep last night. Having a nurse come in every ten minutes and flashing a penlight in my face is _very_ relaxing."

Hutton shook her head incredulously. "I hardly see how that's necessary. Doesn't your room have a dimmer switch on the light?"

"I'm lucky to even have electricity in my room in a building that old," House told her before taking a careful swallow of his coffee. "This isn't hospital coffee-slash-chicory and birch bark," he said in approval.

"It's fair trade coffee from Kenya," she told him with a nod. "What they serve here tastes like how printer's ink smells."

House allowed himself a chuckle at that. He quickly took a closer look at her now that he had the chance. She wore a pretty sleeveless teal and white dress and white sling shoes. Her hair was pulled away from her face and fastened at the back of her head with a simple silver barrette. She wore small silver stud earrings and no other jewelry, once again giving off that 'girl-next-door' feeling.

"I'll see about having a night light put into your room," she told him.

He raised an indignant eyebrow. "What am I, a toddler who's afraid of the boogie man under the bed?"

"It's either that or the flashlight in the face," she told him, appearing amused. "They have to be able to see you well enough to determine if you're still breathing."

Saying nothing to that, House grabbed another slice of Banana loaf.

"So besides being sleep deprived, how are you doing?" the psychiatrist asked him. "Are your arms very painful? What about your leg?"

House shrugged. His leg always hurt, but presently it was about a three out of ten and his arms were sore but he knew that he had no right to complain about it. "Not bad," he answered vaguely.

Hutton didn't press him for specifics, for which he was grateful.

"Is there anything on your mind that you'd like to talk about today?" she asked, getting down to business. "Anything troubling you related to what's happened over the past few days? Something you want to tell me?"

House shook his head, taking a drink of coffee. He wasn't volunteering anything. If she wanted to know anything, she would have to ask.

"Okay," she said evenly. "There's something I'd like to talk about concerning Thursday and then we'll move on and leave that alone for now."

House waited in silence for her to speak. She didn't wait long for a response from him.

"I want to thank you for being honest with me," Hutton told him sincerely. "I know that's not easy for you to do right now. You allowed yourself to be vulnerable and I'm honored that you felt that you could trust me enough to do that. I don't know whether you feel self-conscious about it but I don't want you to. I think it took great courage for you to open up and I have nothing but respect for that.

"Okay," she said, shifting gears. She must have sensed that House was feeling uncomfortable with her little speech. "We have a lot to do over the next five weeks. We're going to visit your past, including your childhood, but from what I can tell from Dr. Nolan's notes you've done quite a bit of work in that area so I'd like to explore those areas in context with issues you currently face rather than focus on them too intensely, unless there is something that you feel you need to discuss; then of course we'll go there. I think that there are a few main areas we need to focus on, including your perception of the world around you, cognitive distortions that may be affecting that, issues with your self-concept and self-esteem especially how it's impacted by and makes an impact on the practical function of your everyday life and relationships. We need to take a look at your anger, your issues with trust, learn practical skills to combat depression including coping strategies for times of stress. Most of this will revolve around what I think is your biggest need of therapy, which is your personal relationships. As we near the end of your six week program we'll evaluate how you're progressing to determine whether we need to extend you stay a little long or if you're ready to be discharged and begin an outpatient program.

"Once you're ready to be discharged we'll begin to look at practical issues you'll be facing in the outside world, including returning home, facing the people and problems there, your career and employment issues, living arrangements and the like." She paused a moment. "Is there anything about the course of treatment I've presented that you want to comment upon?"

House sighed quietly. "It sounds very similar to what we did the first time around," he told her. "How will doing the same thing this time bring about a better result?"

"Some of it will be a review of your previous treatment plan, but there will be considerable differences," she told him confidently. "Our focus will be much more practical. Less theory, more practice. We'll stop several times along the way to see how things are working for you, discard what hasn't been helpful and incorporate different methods where necessary. This therapy is to be centered on you and your specific needs and adapted accordingly."

He looked at her skeptically. "Does Nolan know that you're going to be screwing with his system of doing things around here?"

Her smile was disarming but also held a hint of mischief. "He knows what he needs to know. That's not a concern."

"In other words, no," House interpreted, smirking. "Impressive."

"How so?" she asked.

"He's king of the hill here," House commented. "Patient-slash-pupil is striking out on her own and prepared to ruffle a few feathers. Gutsy. You're going to be put in your place, but gutsy all the same."

"I'm no longer his pupil," she told him with self-assurance, "and he came to me for the consult, not the other way around. Besides, I think you're a little too hard on Nolan. Believe it or not, he really is concerned about you and wants what's best for you. What can I say, House? You're special, and not short-bus special either."

House wanted to laugh at that but he stifled it to a snort, half-grin and, "You would know all about the short bus, wouldn't you Hutton?"

"I always rode in the back seat," she retorted with a broad grin and drank from her Styrofoam cup.

That comment brought a full smile to House's face, which he quickly extinguished. She had been the class clown in school, he decided, fighting off her insecurities by cracking jokes, even if they were at her own expense. Hutton was obviously intelligent, pleasant mannered and personable—very much like Wilson in that way, if no other—so it made the diagnostician curious to know what the source of her insecurity could be.

"Quid pro quo," he said to her out of the blue. She looked at him quizzically for a second and then remembered their conversation a few days before. She rolled her hazel eyes and groaned.

"I was hoping you'd forgotten about that!" she admitted ruefully.

"You wish," he told her smugly. "Were you bullied in elementary and middle school?"

"Do I look like I was bullied?" she asked, raising a softly arched eyebrow.

"No deflecting," he told her, refusing to have his question be avoided.

Hutton scowled suspiciously into his eyes but the upwards turn of the corners of her mouth belied her. "Yes," she told him plainly, "in fourth, fifth and sixth grades and for part of seventh grade."

House hadn't expected an honest reply, but he could sense no deception and he was a pretty good lie detector.

"Why were you bullied?" he asked next but Hutton shook her head.

"No, you asked your question. Now it's my turn."

"You're mistaken," he patient told her. "You owe me at least three more questions this session alone."

The scowl returned to Hutton's face. "So that's how you're going to play, is it?"

"_Four_ more questions," he told her. He could see a flash of irritation in her eyes. _Interesting_, he thought to himself. "Answer the question."

Sighing, she shrugged before speaking, "I don't know if there was any particular reason. Some kids just end up being picked on. I was quite small for my age, shy, kept to myself a lot. I was a nerd—while the other girls were skipping double dutch and gossiping about each other during recess, I sat on a bench and read. I was a fairly good student so the teachers were often give me more responsibility in the classroom so I was resented by the other kids and called a teacher's pet. I didn't help myself any by being whiny and tattle-tailing. I wasn't very attractive and I dressed like a tom-boy, probably because I had two older brothers so I got their hand-me-downs. I only owned a couple of original outfits and two dresses which my mother only allowed me to wear to Sunday Mass."

House considered what she said; she was a runt that dressed like a boy, an introvert and geek and raised religious. Yet, she was considerably different as an adult. He filed that information away.

"Question number three," he said, smirking. "Were you mommy's favorite or daddy's?"

The sparkle left Hutton's eyes but the expression on her face didn't change.

"Neither," she answered simply. "Next question."

Ah, House thought to himself. He hit a sore spot. "Did you get along with your parents?"

Hutton looked at him impassively. He could tell she was holding something back, but what it was he wasn't certain. "Usually. We need to get on with your therapy House. I already have a therapist."  
"If he's anything like the one I had, you might consider shopping around for a new one," House told her sarcastically. "You agreed to quid pro quo. But if your word isn't any good…?"

Hutton met his gaze coldly. "My word is good. However, if we continue at this rate, you'll still be in here come Christmas. I'll answer questions, but only as a normal part of conversation. That's the true spirit of quid pro quo. What this is? Well, it's deflection. If that's what you want to do, that's fine. You're in here until you're better. Six weeks was just a ball park figure."

"I thought you wanted my trust," House said, frowning. He didn't like being threatened and what she said sounded very much like a threat to him. Perhaps she was more like Nolan than he thought.

"I do, very much," she told him earnestly. "But I also want your respect. You don't strike me as someone who would respect a pushover. You and I both know that a doctor isn't worth her weight in salt if she allows her patient to run the treatment process. Remember what I said about boundaries, House."

House stared at her for a moment or two. She was right, of course, but that didn't mean he had to let her know that. He hated to lose at anything. He doubted that Hutton allowed anyone to manipulate her. Perhaps it was her knowledge of the human mind from years of practice as a psychiatrist that had developed that strength, but he suspected that her career wasn't the only teacher she'd learned from.

"Fine," he told her coolly. "We'll play it your way, for now."

"Thank you," she said appreciatively. "Why don't we start with what you feel are the biggest issues in your life that have led you to the point of attempting suicide? What aspects of life seem so miserable or insurmountable that death seems like a preferable alternative?"

"Don't you and Nolan already have that figured all out?" he asked her bitterly.

"How could we?" Hutton answered with a question. "We can't read your mind. We can only go from what you're willing to share with us. I may do it without being aware that I am, but I _try_ not to mind-rape my patients."

"Mind-rape?" House echoed, smirking. "Sounds kinky."

"It's not as interesting as you think," Hutton replied, smirking as well. "Trust me. When I assume that I know what you're thinking and feeling without asking you or being told by you I'm mind-raping you. I'm trying to take from you that which is yours alone. I can't read your mind so I can't know for certain—only you do. I can guess or deduct but that's all."

"I hate it when people think they have me all figured out," House said quietly, staring at the ground. "My father figured I was nothing but a smartass who didn't care about anyone but me. He kept telling me how I hated my mother. He didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. My team thinks they know what I'm really like—a miserable, misanthropic bastard that doesn't care about anyone or anything. It's not true. I'm just selective about who and what I care about. Cuddy assumed that I couldn't be the responsible, caring person she needed and chose a watered down, domesticated version of me instead. Wilson assumes he knows me too. Especially Wilson. He thinks that I don't care about anyone but myself. He believes that I want to make him just as miserable as I am because that's all I know. Apparently I want to screw with his life to see how far I can use and abuse him before he walks away."

"So tell me," Hutton asked. "What is the truth? What are your feelings and intentions concerning Wilson?"

House sighed audibly and allowed his eyes to scan the scenery around them; the grand, majestic trees, the lush expanses of Kentucky bluegrass that made up the lawns, the rose bushes that were in full bloom, and the various kinds of birds that fluttered about, calling out to each other in several types of bird song. As he took it in, his mind was at work, trying to analyze his own thoughts and feelings. What was the truth? What really were his feelings for Wilson? What did he want _from _him and what did he want _for _him? Why was this so difficult for him?

"House?" she said softly, drawing his attention back to her. Hutton's eyes seemed to reflect the sadness and uncertainty he felt. "Tell me what you're feeling right now."

He forced himself to keep his eyes on her. Two voices yelled in his head at him. One said to just tell her and finally get the words out after so many years and the other told him to keep his mouth shut and not risk having his most private thoughts and feelings mocked and trifled with.

"I…I…Damnit! Damnit! I hate fucking crying!" he exclaimed as tears escaped down his cheeks. He turned his head away from her. "Chicks cry. Wimps cry. Not men!"

"Whoever told you that was a goddamned fool!" Hutton told him firmly. "Let me guess—your father, the Marine colonel, told you that, didn't he?"

House said nothing, squeezing his eyes shut and biting the inside of his cheek hard to distract himself from his emotional pain with the physical kind instead. Apparently Hutton took his silence as a confirmation of her guess—and she wasn't wrong to do so. He quickly swiped at the tears on his face.

"Haven't you figured it out yet that your father was a very messed up man?" the psychiatrist told him frankly. "He was emotionally bankrupt and he tried to inflict you with the same problem—with limited success. Real men do cry. Believe it. Does that mean you want to become a blubbering fool everywhere you go at the drop of a hat? God, I hope not! But here, it's safe. Here no one is going to judge or mock you. People—male and female both—need to cry sometimes and you have legitimate reasons to. Now here, take this."

House looked back to her to see her holding out a clean napkin to him. He took it with a nod of thanks and dried his face with it.

The diagnostician took a shuddering breath. "I love Wilson," he said so softly that Hutton had to lean closer to hear him. "I've always loved Wilson. I've known that I'm _in_ love with him for over two years now. I tried to deny it, but I couldn't. So I gave up trying and told myself that I would just have to keep it a secret. I'm a jerk. I don't know how to tell people how I feel, especially not Wilson. I get scared of being abandoned or humiliated so I use sarcasm to protect myself. I pretend that I don't care. I do things to infuriate him and push him away. I run away. But I don't want to lose him and I certainly don't want to make him miserable. I just don't fucking know how to love someone without hurting them!"

"We learn how to love by being loved," Hutton told him gently. "Unfortunately you were forced to grow up without having enough of that emotion demonstrated towards you. That's not your fault. It's not too late to learn, however. That's the good news in all of this. Dogs may get too old to keep learning and growing, but people don't. Tell me, House, if you know: Is Wilson in love with you?"

"You heard him say he was," the diagnostician told her, his voice still gravelly from emotion.

"Do you believe him?" she asked. "Do you believe he's telling you the truth?"

House looked at her quizzically, trying to determine what her opinion was but he couldn't tell anything from her body language or voice.

"I don't think Wilson understands what loving someone is all about any more than I do," the diagnostician said after several seconds had passed in silence. It was a huge admission. House had been doubtful ever since Wilson had first said it to him but he hadn't vocalized it to Hutton until now. "Or perhaps he does, but it isn't very significant to him because he falls in love on the first date with pretty much every woman he meets. If he does love me, it's not any more serious or permanent than it was with anyone else."

"How do you know that?" Hutton asked him carefully. "Have you ever taken the time to talk to him about it?"

"No," House admitted. He hadn't exactly had the time to talk in depth with Wilson about the authenticity and seriousness of his declared love for him; the oncologist had only just come to that conclusion since the older man's first suicide attempt and neither of them had really been in the right frame of mind to be discussing anything of that magnitude rationally. However, House knew the younger man's behavior patterns, understood the love cycle of James Wilson, M.D. after having pulled him out of the depths of despair after his three divorces and listening to his friend try to figure out where everything had gone wrong each time.

"So you can't know for certain, can you?" she pursued. "To assume that you know without having Wilson tell you himself is what I was talking about when I spoke of mind-raping. It's an easy trap to fall into and the only way to avoid it is to never assume, but instead ask the other person."

House shook his head in frustration. "I've known Wilson long enough to know how he thinks and operates. He loves me now…fine and good. If I were to take his declaration at face value and move our friendship forward to a romantic level with him, it would only be a matter of time before I frustrate or alienate him or push him away. He'll become resentful and withdraw, and then retaliate by having an affair just like he did with his wives. Where does that leave me? Not only betrayed and…and hurt…but all alone again without a lover _or _a best friend. Why do you think I hadn't said anything to him before my suicide attempt? He doesn't know how to be faithful; we'd be good for a few months, maybe a year, but then someone better would come along, she always does and I'll be left behind again; again and again and again."

Hutton was quiet a moment as she worked through the information House had just told her. He looked at her furtively, trying to figure out what was going on behind that mask of impassivity she'd put on. She was deep in thought; he could smell the sawdust smoldering, as his grandmother had once said of him when he was a child, musing over some puzzle or another.

"House," she spoke up again, "has there been any relationship that you've been in where you have felt truly loved and wanted?"

He sighed. He hated this! He hated talking when talking wasn't going to change anything; it never had and it wasn't about to now! If he hadn't told her that he would try and put his trust in her, he would have been out of there, on his way back to his room, escort or no escort. Think, he told himself angrily. Just lie—how will she ever know?

House couldn't bring himself to lie, something which he thought would never be a problem for him. Why was it now?

"My grandmother loved me. I never questioned it for a second," he answered, frowning. "Then she died. That was the end of that." He watched himself withdraw into himself as if he were an outsider peering into his soul. Her death had ended one of the only happy glimmers in his childhood.

"You loved her too?" she ventured to ask, appearing to sense that he was closing himself up again.

House said nothing but nodded almost imperceptibly. When Hutton was silent for nearly a minute the diagnostician ventured a quick look at her face. Her hazel eyes were sad; they held the pain he refused to allow himself to feel. He wanted to look away but he couldn't. How could she possibly understand how he felt well enough to reflect it back to him in her gaze? House went so far as to open his mouth to ask her when she broke eye contact for a brief moment, long enough to sever the connection.

"Our time is pretty much up for today," she told him softly after glancing at her watch. She sounded like she regretted having to stop where they were, but had to because House had group therapy after this. "I have some homework for you to do for our next session on Tuesday. I want you to write out a list of every person you have ever had any kind of relationship with, the nature of each relationship, how long it lasted; if it's over then list when it ended and your understanding of why, and list things about the relationship that were good and bad. We'll look over your list at our next session and discuss what you've written about each. Don't worry about giving a right answer because as long as the facts are true, there is no right or wrong answer. Okay?"

Non-committal, the diagnostician stood up and helped her clean up the food and drink quickly. She escorted him inside again in silence.

Before she parted from him in the empty corridor outside his room she said quietly, "In answer to your questions, neither of my parents wanted me because I was illigitamate, the product of a drunken one-night stand. I don't know any of the gory details, but I've known my entire life that my father wanted my mother to abort me but she chickened out at the very last minute because she was a practicing Catholic and she didn't want to go to hell. I got along with both of them fairly well considering I was a 'terrible mistake' as far as they were concerned. Fortunately my biological father found out about me when I was three and sued for visitation rights. He was always a good, kind, and loving man who made me feel like I belonged in his family and for some reason I've never quite understood why his wife and older daughters treated me with love. If they hadn't loved me, I probably never would have learned how to love others—or myself—because that's where it starts, House. You have to learn how to love yourself before you can love others or hope to have them love you the way you need them to in return. I'm only telling you this because I know where you were leading with your questions…and I _do_ want you to trust me."

Stunned, House watched her walk away from him until she passed through a fire door at the far end of the corridor and disappeared from sight.


	14. Chapter 14 Part 2 Ch 2

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** A brief look at life outside of Mayfield and a very small glimpse of a possible future for House beyond the psychiatric hospital and Princeton. Enjoy!

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Two: Friday, May 28, 2010; 12:10 P.M.**

Hutton purchased a Diet Coke from a vending machine and then took it along with her thermal lunch bag to the dining area of the cafeteria at St. Luke's; her eyes scanned the myriad of faces at the tables until she found those she was looking for. Smiling to herself she wove her way around other diners until she reached her destination and sat down at a table where three other doctors, two men and a woman, sat eating, gossiping and occasionally laughing loud enough to attract the attention of most of the others in the hall. The psychiatrist plopped herself down in the empty seat without announcing her presence first.

"You're late," the other female doctor, Linda Bonnar, told her pretending to be vexed. "We thought you were standing us up!"

"Got caught in traffic on the Delaware Expressway," she told the chief of Obstetrics and Gynecology with a smile. Linda was her best friend at the hospital. She was a short, pear-shaped woman in her late forties with graying dirty-blonde hair, a pixie-like face and dancing grey eyes.

"Ah, yes!" Dr. Justin Clee spoke up from directly across the table as Hutton. He smiled sarcastically, raising a thick black eyebrow that stood out as out of place in comparison to the short shock of honey blond hair on his head and chin. He was a tall drink of water, gangly and kind of sickly looking, which was not unusual for him. The microsurgeon was the 'whore' of the group, gobbling up any ready and willing piece of man-flesh insight in sight, or so it seemed; he wasn't the picky type. "The celebrity patient Nolan passed your way! Tell me, is Gregory House _really_ the prima donna he's rumored to be?"

Hutton started and then quickly hid her surprise. How did he know who her patient was? That was privileged information and she had never mentioned anything about him to her klatch of friends before. How could he know? The only other person at St. Luke's who would have any rightful knowledge that she was treating House was the hospital's chief administrator, Dr. Alexander (Xander) Roth.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she told him with a thin smile and a glare that said non-verbally: 'You know damned well I can't answer that question!'

"In other words," Linda interpreted, "shut your trap!"

"Meow!" Clee returned teasingly. "Somebody hasn't gotten any for a while! What is it, darling? Gary on the road again?"

Linda gave him a dirty look and took a bite of her sandwich.

"Whether you can say anything or not," the remaining male at the table said with a grin, "it's all over the hospital that he was brought in here this past week and you were one of his physicians of record. HIPAA 1 doesn't intimidate the grapevine, Olivia."

Hutton looked over at Dr. Gage Anderson, Head of Pediatric Medicine. He was in his mid-forties with wavy chocolate brown hair and eyes, light cocoa-toned skin and a broad, perfect smile. He was the philosopher of the four amigos and the voice of reason. He had a mild, gentle nature with a seemingly endless supply of patience which made him the excellent pediatrician that he was. He was also the object of a huge crush for Hutton, not that she would ever admit it to another soul.

"It's no secret," Clee added, smiling deviously, "Roth's been talking about it all over the hospital like House is the Second Coming! So relax! You haven't violated Doctor-Patient confidentiality! So tell us!"

"Why?" Hutton asked him with a twisted smile, pulling a plastic container out of her lunch bag. She opened her salad and squeezed a wedge of lemon over the lettuce combination before poking at it with a fork. "Are you looking for a phone number? Do you like the prima donna type, Justin?"

"I like any type, honey," he told her, winking knowingly. "You know that."

"You like any man who's still breathing!" Linda said sarcastically.

"Breathing's definitely a requirement," Clee retorted, glaring at her. "You, on the other hand…."

"Children, children!" Hutton broke in, speaking to them as if they were squabbling siblings. "No arguing! I'm trying to eat without ending up with indigestion!"

"I've heard he's disabled," Linda said after a few moments of silence amongst friends, "and it's affected his personal life and career. I thought I read in an article once that he's a drug addict."

"Recovering opiate addict," Anderson corrected her quietly. "I read a biographical article about him written eight months ago that was published right after one of his papers was. The man suffered an infarction in his right leg around ten years ago, lost a huge chunk of his thigh to necrosis and left him with chronic pain. He probably started off dependent on the drugs to control the pain and then life problems probably exacerbated the pain and his addiction began. He wouldn't be the first, unfortunately. But unless something has changed since the biographical piece was written, he's off the drugs. Gotta give the guy credit for that."

Hutton smiled to herself. Trust Gage to be the one to offer the empathic response. He was looking at her with serious eyes, she knew, but the psychiatrist chose to ignore him. She had no intention of divulging anything she knew about her patient and feeding hospital gossip in the process. That, she knew, would be completely counterproductive to her intentions. She knew Gage would never push the issue like the others would.

"I saw him once at a medical conference in New York," Clee announced, smiling still. "He was there with a cute brunet, an oncologist, I think. I have to say he was a sexy drink of water, even with the cane. I wonder if he and the cancer doc are still dating."

This Hutton couldn't resist. "Dating?" she asked, trying not to sound overly interested in the conversation. "Who says they were dating?"

"Honey," Clee answered, winking suggestively. "They were inseparable, shared a room and the eye sex between them made me horny."

"Everything makes you horny," Linda quipped quickly with a smirk.

"When was this convention?" the psychiatrist asked stoically, staring down at her salad which she still hadn't touched. She had no appetite; all food lately looked unappealing to her. Hutton pushed the container aside and took a drink from her bottle of soda.

"Um, let me think," the microsurgeon answered, tapping his chin with long, tapered, perfectly manicured fingers. "I believe it was in January of oh-nine. Yes, that's it! They were there with a woman from the same hospital—a pretty brunette that dressed like she was advertising, if you know what I mean. She looked like she was trying to catch House's attentions but he only had eyes for the cancer doc. Got the feeling the two of them were keeping things under wraps, though. Some of us are shy, especially in this profession."

"But not you," Hutton responded, smiling. "Why are you different?"

"Because I don't give a fuck what anyone thinks about me," Clee answered firmly. "If I prefer ass over pussy, it's nobody's business but mine and the people I care to tell."

Linda set her half-eaten apple down, looking queasy. "Damn, Justin! Some of us are trying to eat here! Go tell someone else!"

"But what fun is that?" he told her, smirking. "Making you sick is the second best part of my day, sugar! Right after morning fellatio, of course."

"Now I'm losing my appetite," Hutton joked as she began to put her uneaten salad back into her lunch bag and slung the bag over her prosthetic hand. She picked up her soda with her other hand and rose to leave.

"Don't let his filthy mouth drive you away!" Linda protested, glaring over her shoulder at Clee.

"Justin?" the psychiatrist told her, rolling her eyes. "Please! He's an amateur! Actually, I have to go talk to Roth about something before my next patient arrives at one."

"Are you and the kids still coming tonight?" Linda asked her. "If you don't Gary and I will be eating cheese fondue for the next month!"

"We're coming," Hutton assured her with a wink. "Seven thirty, right?"

"Right!" Linda agreed and then looked expectantly at Anderson, who was also making to leave. "You're still coming too, right?"

Hutton looked over at the pediatrician and then back to her best friend, surprised. She had no idea that Gage had been invited; the tiny, smug smile on Linda's mouth told the psychiatrist everything she needed to know. She was going to kill the ob/gyn later, when there were no witnesses around to watch, for her unwanted matchmaking.

"Wouldn't miss it," he answered, "especially since Gary promised he'd throw a couple of steaks on the grill for the men-folk!"

"Why wasn't I invited?" Hutton heard Clee whine as she walked away in the direction of the elevators.

Anderson fell into step beside her. She shivered slightly having him walking so close; he smelled incredible, just as he always did. Her heart was beating a little more rapidly than usual and she felt her face flushing, hoping desperately that he didn't notice. He looked even better than usual today; he was wearing a deep green shirt and tie that brought out the flecks in his eyes.

_Quit staring at him!_ Hutton told herself sternly. _Get a grip on yourself!_

"Are you feeling alright?" Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome asked her, frowning slightly with concern. "I've noticed lately that you're barely eating at lunch and you look a little pale."

Hutton's eyes widened slightly. Great! She looked sickly in front of him! _Way to attract interest, Liv!_ She told herself, mentally groaning.

"I'm feeling fine," she assured him, smiling slightly. "I'm just going through one of my low appetite phases, I guess. It's nothing to worry about."

"You look tired, too," Anderson continued, not convinced. "You've lost at least ten pounds since May. You're not on some crazy diet or something, are you?"

It suddenly occurred to Hutton that Anderson had noticed these things because he'd been watching her and he was concerned, which meant that, at least to some limited extent, he cared about her. She rolled her eyes mentally at her urge to squeal like a fan-girl.

They reached the elevator and Hutton pressed the 'Up' call button then turned to face him. "No, no diet. I haven't noticed any loss in weight and I'm getting plenty of rest. I'm fine!"

The pediatrician shook his head, still frowning with concern, his eyes scrutinizing. "When's the last time you had a check up?"

"Five months ago, along with everyone else at St. Luke's," she told him pointedly, "and I was found to be perfectly healthy. What's with the mother hen act, Gage? Don't you have enough rugrats with the cold to occupy your attention?"

Anderson sighed, apparently abandoning his line of questioning. "No colds but one MRSA 2 in NICU 3," he told her. "A six-day-old girl who was in here for treatment of another illness when she presented. I've started her on Vancomycin and I'm crossing my fingers."

"Was she previously immune-compromised?" Hutton asked as an elevator arrived and the doors slid open. Four people disembarked before Anderson and she stepped into the empty car. She pressed the button for the main floor; he pressed for the fourth floor where Pedes was located.

"She was born HIV-positive," he said, his voice carrying an edge of regret. She was in for an out-of-control strep infection and was clearing up quite well when the staph infection appeared. Roth wanted to quarantine my entire department until I reminded him that she was already isolated in a NICU pressurized incubator."

"She had to have been carrying the MRSA before she was put into isolation, then," Hutton declared, puzzled. "Where did she pick it up?"

"My guess is the ER," Anderson answered, sighing audibly. "Roth has quarantined ER until it's been swept and cleared and decontaminated. My department's on MRSA alert but so far there haven't been any other cases presenting. We'll see."

The elevator doors open on the main floor but Hutton didn't step off right away, holding the doors for others embarking. "When was she brought in, Gage?" she asked curiously.

"Last week Sunday," he answered. "Why?"

The psychiatrist shrugged, stepping clear of the door. "Just curious."

The pediatrician gave her a funny look as the elevator doors closed, cutting them off. Hutton headed in the direction of the Administration wing with a small smile on her face, thinking about the MRSA baby as she did. She missed nitty-gritty medicine; psychiatry wasn't a cake-walk, despite what most other specializations thought, but it was a different kind of challenge for her and there were times when she missed getting her hands dirty, so to speak. She looked down at her prosthesis and allowed herself a split second of self-pity before banishing it again. Life was too short to spend it feeling sorry for herself.

The idea of getting her hands dirty, of keeping her mind engaged to stave off boredom and unwanted thoughts, reminded her of House, which was part of the reason she'd made this impromptu appointment with the hospital's chief administrator in the first place. She planned on using Dr. Roth's obsession to manipulate him. Well, perhaps manipulate was too strong a word…she preferred the sound of 'persuade' a lot better. _Semantics_, she thought with a shake of her head and a smirk. Was manipulation such a bad thing if it was for a good cause?

_Well, yes_, she answered herself as she walked up to the desk of Marilyn Wiebe, Roth's administrative assistant. "Hi Marilyn," Hutton greeted her with a genuine smile. "How's everything with you?"

"Fine," the older woman answered, glancing up at her over her glasses as she entered information into the computer. "It'll be a lot better at five."

Laughing softly, Hutton asked, "I assume Alexander the Great is in?"

"And plotting the conquest of the world," Marilyn quipped, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards. "Go on in, Dr. Hutton."

"Thanks," the psychiatrist offered and she went to the office door, rapped on it twice before opening it and stepping inside and quietly shutting the door behind her.

Dr. Xander Roth sat behind his desk, writing something. He was an imposing fifty-five-year-old man, who stood six-foot-six and had to weigh at least two-fifty and not an ounce of it fat. He was a bodybuilder in his free time and a bit of a narcissist about it. His choleric personality was in synchronicity with his appearance; he could be quite the dictator when he had an agenda, which was most of the time; a benevolent dictator but a dictator all the same. He wasn't a particularly creative man but he was an excellent hospital administrator; the board of directors and patrons of St. Luke's loved him.

They didn't have to work for him, Hutton thought, hiding a smirk.

"So which unfortunate civilization are you planning on invading today, Sire?" she asked from the door with a teasing smile.

He lifted his salt-and-paprika haired head and looked up at her with sharp green-blue eyes. Ignoring her comment he smiled and then frowned all in one fluid motion. "Do you know we have several antibiotic resistant strains of Staph growing in our ER?" he asked her, using the royal 'We'. "I've had to reroute all emergency cases to Temple U and Hahnemann U for the time being."

"Anderson only mentioned the one case of MRSA," she commented as she moved into the room and took a seat in a chair near his desk.

"Two more strains were found when we swabbed that incubator of death down stairs," Roth informed her, pointing his pen at her as he spoke. "I've got the CDC breathing down my neck. It's a disaster."

Hutton sighed silently. She'd hoped to find him in a good mood—silly her!

"So what can I do for you, Olivia?" he asked crisply, looking back down at his writing and jotting a few more thoughts down. "As you can see I'm a little busy."

"Well, actually, I came to talk to you about acquiring Dr. Gregory House for St Lukes. You know, that Diagnostic department you've had wet dreams about since Princeton-Plainsboro opened theirs?" she told him, pushing herself up from the chair, making to leave. "However I can come back at a better time, maybe next week some time…." She had only taken two steps towards the door when the administrator's voice stopped her.

"Wait!" Roth called after her quickly. "What did you say about Dr. House and acquiring him for St. Luke's?"

Hutton smiled smugly but wiped the expression off of her face before turning back around to face him.

"I have a proposition for you, Xander. One that I think you should consider quite seriously," the psychiatrist told him, returning to the chair. She knew that she had her boss' full attention.

**Friday, May 28, 2010; 1:39 P.M.**

Dr. James Wilson sat behind his desk and leaned forward, resting his elbows on its surface. He sighed and began to rub his temple gingerly, grimacing. He could feel one of his headaches coming on and could tell that this one could bloom into a full-fledged migraine. Opening his top desk drawer he pulled out a bottle of ibuprofen liquid gels, dumped five of the green capsules into his hand and put the bottle away. He swallowed them with a mouthful of lukewarm coffee, hoping that he'd taken them early enough to stave off the worst of the coming attack. Normally he used Topamax to prevent migraines but he didn't like certain side effects that he found becoming increasingly obtrusive.

He'd just returned from the most recent Hospital Board meeting where he held a seat representing the medical staff of Princeton-Plainsboro. At the top of the agenda had been the 'situation' with Dr. Gregory House and the future of his employment at PPTH. The oncologist had been dreading this particular subject, knowing full well in what direction the discussion was going to go. He'd sat at the table across from the Dean of Medicine, watching her carefully as the Chairman opened the subject to be discussed. She had kept her eyes carefully trained on the chairman, not once acknowledging her Oncology chief's gaze. Cuddy had known that Wilson was furious at her for her position on what should happen with House's position at the hospital and she hadn't been prepared to acknowledge that she was aware of the daggers he had been casting at her with his hard, dark brown eyes. He'd noticed how she had twisted her garrulous engagement ring around her finger as the only sign of the unsettled emotions she had been feeling.

Cuddy was for severing the diagnostician's contract with PPTH permanently and replacing him as Head of Diagnostic Medicine with someone else, a department that had been created specifically for the world-famous doctor. Wilson remembered confronting her in her office shortly after he had overheard Foreman boasting to another doctor how he was temporary head of the department now but that would be made permanent soon, he was certain, and this time House wouldn't be able to steal it from him again.

The day prior the oncologist had stormed into the Dean's office without knocking or otherwise announcing himself, _a la House_. Cuddy's P.A. had tried to prevent his intrusion to no avail, following Wilson in and looking apologetically to Cuddy.

"I'm sorry, but he just wouldn't listen-!"

Cuddy had looked up from her paperwork and had frowned at Wilson before looking kindly to her most recent P.A. hire. "It's alright Carrie. You can go."

Carrie had nodded, quickly scampering back to her desk in the outer office. Cuddy had returned her glare to Wilson, sighing, annoyed and dropping her pen onto the open file before her.

"You've heard," she had said rather than inquired. "What did you expect me to do? He'd violated the terms he'd agreed to when he was reinstated after his last hospitalization-."

"I wasn't aware that illness was grounds for dismissal!" Wilson had cut her off, barely restraining his fury. "He didn't violate anything, and you know it! His tox screen was clear for opiates or other controlled substances or recreational drugs. For God's sake, Cuddy! He's had a nervous breakdown; he's ill, not criminal! You didn't present Friedman to the board for dismissal when he had his little crack-up five months ago!"

"Friedman didn't try to kill himself—twice!" she had replied pointedly. Wilson hadn't told her about House's attempt at Mayfield and he had no intention of doing so.

"No," the oncologist had retorted, hands on hips, "he just dressed up like Casanova and tried to kiss all of his obstetrics patients, quoting love poetry to them!" Despite how angry he'd been at that moment Wilson had had difficulty keeping himself from chuckling at the memory.

"Yes," Cuddy had demurred slightly, "well, that's true. It doesn't change anything concerning House. This hospital cannot afford the negative publicity of having one of its doctors being suicidal and not only endangering his life but the lives of others!"

Wilson had looked at her incredulously. "Whose life other than his did House risk?"

"Yours!" Cuddy had answered, pointing at him for emphasis. "You could have easily gone over the edge of the roof with him! You were lucky things ended up the way they did—he could have killed the both of you! This hospital would have ended up missing two department heads instead of just one."

"But I didn't end up falling to my death with House," the oncologist had insisted, shaking his head. "I chose to step in, he didn't force me. In fact, I'm pretty certain he would have preferred I hadn't saved his life. He posed no threat to any other person that day. This isn't about House's fitness to remain on staff, and you know it! This is about your feelings for House and your frustration with your choices for your life! This is a personal vendetta but for the life of me I can't figure out why you have it out for him. You've got what you wanted—a safe, reliable, and responsible— albeit boring—fiancé and baby daughter, the family you've always dreamed of, a successful career and House no longer trying to interfere with you and Lucas! He hasn't done anything to you in months. Why the hell are you trying to destroy him?"

Cuddy had stood up at that, her blue-grey eyes flashing angrily at having her motives and her authority questioned. Wilson remembered wondering if her anger wasn't rooted also in her dissatisfaction with Lucas and the fact that House had moved on and no longer mooned after her like he had. Wilson knew that the Dean of Medicine had always thrived on House's attention from the first day he began working for her at PPTH. It boosted her considerable ego and had been part of their sexually charged banter and power struggle for years. To no longer have the diagnostician leering down her blouse or commenting about her ass certainly bothered her, and the oncologist had been certain that was what had been behind her vindictiveness of late.

"I'm trying to protect this hospital from any more damage caused by House's insanely reckless and self-destructive actions!" she had told him coldly. "That's my job. I am through with making up excuses and risking my career and my happiness covering for him! I told him I was done with him and that as far as I was concerned he was nothing more to me than just another employee. That's what I'm doing!"

"So that's it?" Wilson had demanded angrily. "After all these years you've finally disposed of him like you would a dirty tissue? After leading him on for years and telling him that you just want to be friends you're no longer his friend? He's now the enemy you're ousting to keep this hospital—and your job—secure?"

"To be my enemy, he would have to have some import or influence on my life," Cuddy had said and her words had chilled Wilson to the bone. "I tried to make peace with him. I told him that I wanted us to be friends, and he told me that that was the last thing he wanted. He ended our connection first, so I've moved on. You'd be wise to focus on Sam and do the same before he destroys another relationship of yours, and ultimately destroys your life. Now you can leave, Dr. Wilson. I have to complete my recommendation for the board!"

Wilson had looked at her in disbelief. He'd decided that this was not the Lisa Cuddy he had known and was friends with once upon a long time ago. This was a replica from the pod and the body snatchers had thieved the woman he'd cared about away. He didn't even know the imposter standing there in front of him and he wasn't all that interested in knowing her either. He had turned to leave but then had stopped at the door and had looked back at her, regarding her with a combination of contempt and pity.

"So this is what a woman scorned looks like," he'd spat, tossing caution—and possibly his job—to the wind. "It's uglier than I thought, and I have three ex-wives! Oh, and for the record, my life may be in shambles but having House in my life isn't what has made me miserable! That was caused by pushing him out of it and trying to replace him with Sam! I'll tell you one thing, _Doctor_ Cuddy. If the board votes him out, you can start advertising for a new Head of Oncology as well!"

Wilson had stormed out of her office, too angry to return to his office, and instead had gone for a brisk walk to the running park where House had often gone to be alone and think. He'd found the picnic table his best friend had favored and had sat down, taking deep breaths to calm himself. It seemed like the world was coming apart at the seams and he had no way of stopping it from happening. In fact, everything he'd done in the past six months had only made it worse, had only accelerated the entropy effect. His best friend was back in a mental institution for trying to kill himself over and over again and the oncologist believed he was perhaps the biggest reason for that. He'd been one of the forces that had overwhelmed the man, who had tried so hard to overcome his demons and build a new life.

Why hadn't he come to his senses before Sam had appeared on the picture? Once she had arrived, why hadn't the oncologist realized that they never really had a chance at making things work a second time around? Why hadn't he done the logical thing and taken things slowly without pushing House away yet again?

It was no wonder that House no longer wanted anything to do with him, Wilson had concluded, hiding his face in his hands in misery. He'd admitted to himself and the diagnostician that he was in love with his best friend too late. It seemed like he was always too late to do the right thing.

He'd felt tears stinging his eyes as he sat there, but he hadn't allowed himself to cry. The image of House's disgusted expression at his emotional display had flashed before his eyes; Wilson had known that he'd had to return to the hospital and his job for however much longer he had it; and so he had.

The Board meeting had been set for the next day, and Wilson had arrived feeling like a lamb being led to the slaughter, not only for himself, which he hadn't really cared all that much about, but also for House, who he'd known was doomed to be fired. There had been no doubt in his mind of that being the result. When Cuddy had been given the floor, she'd presented the situation with House in a dispassionate fashion, as if she had been talking about the proposal to dismiss a janitor whose name and face she'd never known or seen before. It had made Wilson grit his teeth and ball up his hands into white-knuckled fists. His stomach had churned violently and he'd decided that if he had to vomit, he'd stand up and do so all over the Dean of Medicine's slutty blouse.

When the proposal had been opened for discussion, the general consensus in the room had been to sack House as quickly as possible. Wilson had tried to defend House but to no avail. The vote had been taken, and all but Wilson had voted to ratify Cuddy's proposal. A severance package would be put together for the sick diagnostician and presented to him when he was 'sane' enough to accept their decision.

Unable to stand the sight of any of the other individuals in the Boardroom, Wilson had quickly left the room and had returned to his office, abandoning the rest of the meeting.

And so, he sat at his desk, face in hands, feeling more miserable than he had since Amber had died. He would begin to search for another job in the morning, and once one had been scoped out, he would write his letter of resignation and present it to Cuddy, preferably in front of as many people as possible; he didn't want her to get through this entire debacle smelling like a rose. She was a skunk, and he wanted all of her employees to know it—with a warning to them: Piss off the Dean of Medicine personally, and your professional life will be on the line as well. Was it dirty play?—probably. She was the one who had declared war, though, and all was fair under those circumstances, as far as Wilson was concerned.

Somehow Wilson made it through the rest of the work day, although it was all a haze to him as he drove home to his empty loft to eat alone, watch TV alone and go to bed alone, all the while thinking about the mess he had made out of his life—and House's. In the state of mind he found himself in, he couldn't even consider the possibility that there had been factors behind the diagnostician's second breakdown besides him.

The car must have driven itself home because he couldn't remember anything about the trip when he parked the car in the underground garage and slowly crawled out of the Volvo. His entire body ached with every movement he made; Wilson felt like he was a hundred years old, body, mind and soul. Carrying his briefcase he walked slowly to the elevator and took it all the way up to the top floor of the condominium. At the lobby level the car stopped to let on Miss 2D herself who had her arms full with reusable shopping bags overflowing with groceries. He quickly relieved Norah of a couple of the bags without thinking much about it.

The pretty blonde gave him a smile. Wilson tried to return it but all that emerged onto his face was a pained grimace. He didn't know if he even knew how to offer a genuine smile anymore. Norah's expression became one of compassion and she smiled sadly at him.

"Are you okay, James?" she asked gently. "We haven't really talked in months…but if you'd like to, you're welcome to come to me. I really don't try to stick my nose into my neighbor's business, but I couldn't help but notice when Greg moved out and that other lady—the pretty blonde?—moved in. I guess things didn't work out…with either one of them? I'm sorry—I shouldn't have asked that! It's none of my business!"

It wasn't, Wilson acknowledged silently, and as much as her offer to talk appealed to him, he simply couldn't bring himself to broach the subject that was House and him. It was too personal yet for him to share with someone who was really a stranger. He could tell her intentions were good, but he had to turn down her offer.

"Thank you, Norah," he said genuinely, "I appreciate that but…but I'm tired. I just want to go home and go to bed. It's been a long day."

The elevator opened on the second floor and Wilson followed her off, carrying her bags to her door. She unlocked the entrance and then entered, with the oncologist behind her. He carried the bags to her kitchen, where he set them down on the counter for her.

"Thank you," Norah said in gratitude. She gently touched the sleeve of Wilson's jacket. "If you change your mind, you know where I live."

Wilson nodded, not even trying to smile. She walked him out of her apartment. He returned to the elevator and continued on up to the top floor. Once he was in the confines of his loft apartment, he sighed heavily and set his briefcase down next to the door. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it up before heading slowly but directly to his bedroom. He really did want to flop down on his bed, fully clad in his work clothes, and go directly to sleep, but he resisted that urge. Instead he stripped right down and headed to his bathroom where he proceeded to take a long, hot shower, allowing the pounding streams of water to massage most of the tension and kinks out of the muscles in his neck, shoulders and back. He willed himself to think of nothing but the heat and the water for several minutes.

Once he was through with his shower he toweled off and then wandered, nude, around his bedroom as he rummaged through his closet and drawers for something relaxed and comfortable to wear. It was too early for his pajamas, he decided, and opted for a t-shirt and sweatpants. It wasn't until he was already dressed that he noticed that the shirt he wore was one of House's favorite classic rock tees, Deep Purple. It must have gotten mixed up with his laundry at some point before the diagnostician had moved out and neither man had noticed that it had been left behind until now. Wilson looked at himself in the mirror wearing it. It looked better on House's taller, more slender frame than on the oncologist but Wilson didn't take it off. He felt oddly comforted with that little extension of his best friend against his skin, almost as if it was hugging him in House's place.

Wilson smirked; the diagnostician would be gagging if he had been able to hear his thoughts. After that, he would have been threatening the younger man's life if he didn't remove and surrender said tee to him immediately.

He padded, barefoot, out to the kitchen; Wilson new he should eat. He hadn't eaten all day except for a single piece of toast and a cup of coffee at breakfast. Even that had sat like a rock in the pit of his stomach long past the lunch hour. He opened the refrigerator, which was looking barren at present; without anyone else to cook for, Wilson had been settling for sandwiches and take-out, for the most part. Nothing that was within interested him at all. He took out the carton of milk and set it on the island. He went to a cabinet and pulled out a bowl. From behind another door he found a box of cereal and prepared himself a bowl before taking his 'meal', as it was, out to the living room. He plopped himself down on the sofa and found the remote control for the TV, turning the device on. Flipping through the channels he came across one of the porno channels House had insisted they subscribe to before he moved out.

_Was kicked out,_ Wilson's conscience said to him mockingly.

"Shut up," the oncologist muttered out loud.

He watched the program already in progress as he ate his cereal unenthusiastically. After only a couple of spoonfuls he began to feel queasy and set the bowl down onto the coffee table, right next to the half-full bottle of scotch he'd started the night before. He stared at it for a while, debating whether or not to pour himself some into the dirty glass he'd used last night. He knew that he'd been drinking a little more than usual lately—okay, a lot more than usual lately—and wondered if he shouldn't take it easier for a little while; that thought was quickly enough pushed aside and he grabbed the bottle, pouring himself an old fashioned full of the amber liquid and bringing it immediately to his lips. Wilson savored the way the smooth liquor lightly burned on its way down his throat to his stomach. He finished the first tumbler quickly and poured himself a second, drinking it a little slower as he took in the ménage-a-trois taking place on the TV in front of him. What made it different from those he'd seen before was that it was made up of one woman and two men; usually he watched productions that had the ratio reversed.

It wasn't long before Wilson found himself becoming quite aroused by what he was watching, finding himself enjoying the sex-play between the two men just as much as the play between each man and the woman. He smirked, taking a gulp of scotch, and allowed himself to enjoy something that he would have shamed himself into rejecting only a few weeks earlier. He masturbated to the program and after poured him a lot more to drink, quickly losing the ability to pay attention to what was taking place on screen. As his buzz progressed into a greater state of intoxication he thought about House, and about the dreams he'd had throughout the years where the scenarios had involved the diagnostician and him in the throes of passion, doing things to and with each other that would bring a blush to his face had he been sober.

He began to cry, then. Wilson felt like a pathetic fool but couldn't keep himself from doing it. Hot tears rolled down his face, which he hid in both hands as the TV continued to play. Sobbing turned into wailing, and he laid himself down on the sofa, burying his face in the space between the seat cushions and the upholstered seat back, breathing in stale, slightly dusty air. Fleetingly he considered burying his face directly into the cushions until he couldn't breathe anymore, but that urge passed quickly enough. The oncologist didn't want to die; he wanted to live with House in his life, in his home and in his bed. He couldn't allow himself to give up hope that he would have all three of those things someday soon and this pain and guilt he felt would eventually disappear into the past. He had to believe that, otherwise he truly would give up all hope.

Wilson knew in that moment that he had never loved anyone as much as he did Gregory House. If only he could have come to that realization before he'd driven the diagnostician away and caused him so much pain. The oncologist hugged himself, in House's shirt, imagining that it was his best friend's arms wrapped around him, holding him close.

Until that was real, Wilson told himself that he wouldn't give up hope. House and he had been through a lot worse than the misunderstanding they'd undergone over Sam. They would make it through this. House would recover; he was stronger than people gave him credit for being. When he was better, Wilson would make it all up to him and wouldn't make those same stupid mistakes again. It was going to be okay. It was.

It had to be.

**Saturday, May 29, 2010; 2:28 A.M.**

Lucas Douglas rolled over in his sleep and startled awake when he realized that the other half of the bed was empty and, by the coolness of the sheets there, had been for quite some time. He rubbed his sleepy face with a hand and frowned. This was becoming a bad habit.

He rolled out of bed and pulled on a pair of pajama pants before making his way in the dark out of the bedroom and down the corridor. As he neared the living areas of the new house his fiancée and he had purchased as their first home together, he noticed light coming from the kitchen and directed himself that way. He found said fiancée seated at the table in the kitchen nook clad in her night gown and house coat pulled over top. She hugged a steaming cup of tea with her hands and stared down into the brew with red-rimmed eyes, appearing to be lost in thought. He approached her and sat down in the chair next to hers.

"Hey, Babe," he said to her softly, placing a comforting hand on her back. "Trouble sleeping again?"

Lisa Cuddy shrugged slightly, not looking up at him. She sighed heavily. "It's been stressful at work lately," she told him quietly. "I had to make a recommendation to the board today for the dismissal of one of my doctors. It was passed with only one dissention and no abstentions. It was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do in my position at the hospital."

Rubbing soothing circles on her back, Lucas told her, "I'm certain it was the right decision to make. You shouldn't feel bad about doing your job. Which doctor did you have to fire?"

A bitter smirk crossed her lips. "House."

This surprised the Private Investigator. "Wow. I thought he was doing well with his recovery. When did he relapse?"

"He didn't, exactly," she answered and then took a swallow of her lukewarm tea as an afterthought. "He wasn't fired for using again."

"Was he hallucinating again? Did he kill a patient with one of his reckless treatments? What?" Lucas asked, genuinely curious. He knew that there was a bond between Cuddy and the diagnostician that would probably never go away, and he was at the stage where he was okay with that. He knew that she had chosen him and that any romantic feelings for House were in the past. House had stopped interfering in their relationship and appeared to have moved on. Lucas knew just how far his fiancée had gone in the past to protect House personally and professionally; Cuddy never would have recommended that House be dismissed unless there was a damned good reason for it, a reason she couldn't just ignore.

Cuddy looked at him with red, puffy grey-blue eyes. "He attempted suicide," she admitted reluctantly. "Twice. The first attempt was at his apartment, the night after he rescued that woman who was trapped in the wreckage. I told you about her, how House did everything he could to spare both her leg and her life and ended up having to amputate her leg to free her?"

Lucas nodded in confirmation. He remembered Cuddy telling him all about her, and how hard House had taken her dying on route to the hospital. He had actually felt sympathy for his former rival.

"He cut himself up and nearly bled to death. He would have if Foreman and Wilson hadn't gone to check on him and found him in time," she continued wearily. "Wilson is his medical proxy and arranged for House to return to Mayfield for assessment and treatment when he escaped his hospital room and headed for the roof."

"Jesus, Lise!" Lucas murmured, frowning and shaking his head. He could only imagine how hard that would have been on her and Wilson as well.

"He literally jumped!" Cuddy told him, her eyes tearing up again. "If Wilson hadn't grabbed him while he was in mid-air and pulled him back onto the roof, he'd be dead. It was no act or cry for attention. He _really_ wanted to die. For a moment there I thought Wilson was going to be pulled over the side with him and I was going to lose both of them." She gave a shuddering sigh, rubbing the tears out of her eyes before they could fall. "Every time I try to fall asleep I picture the two of them lying on the ground below, dead." She closed her eyes against the mental image.

"Why didn't you tell me about this before now, Babe?" he asked her, gently turning her to face him. Lucas placed a hand on her cheek and gently caressed her cheekbone with his thumb. She turned her face towards the comforting touch.

"I don't know," she answered honestly, shrugging. "I couldn't bring myself to. I guess I didn't want to bring that ugliness home with me. I wanted to have one place I could go to where that madness hadn't contaminated it. It was foolish to think that it would work. I wasn't trying to keep secrets from you, I just…." Her voice trailed off and she shrugged again, looking lost. "I didn't want to fire House, Lucas. I had to. The publicity was already playing havoc with the operations of the hospital, I had donors threatening to pull their support, other doctors insisting that they couldn't continue to work under such conditions…if I could have avoided it, I would have, but I couldn't. Wilson was the only one who didn't vote in favor, of course. He hates me, Lucas. He told me that he would resign if the Board ruled against House. Now I'm just waiting for his letter of resignation to show up on my desk. I've lost both of my friends! I don't understand how everything has got so crazy! I really don't!"

New tears had replaced the ones she had rubbed away. Lucas pulled her off of her chair and onto his lap. He held her close and she hid her face in the crook of his neck, crying softly for several minutes. Lisa Cuddy wasn't a cryer—Lucas knew she had to be hurting badly to be sobbing like this. He wanted to blame someone for all of this, but there was no one person who deserved to be blamed. The obvious choice at first appeared to be House but the P.I. couldn't bring himself to be angry at him; the diagnostician was obviously a sick man, and it wouldn't be right to condemn him for being ill. Wilson was hurting as much as Cuddy was for his friend and was reacting to that hurt by lashing out, as Lucas was certain he would do if he found himself in the oncologist's position.

"Wilson doesn't think I care," his fiancée told him as her sobs subsided. "He couldn't be more wrong if he tried Lucas. I don't know what to do."

"I know, Lise," he told her, continuing to hold her tightly to her. "I know. You did what you had to. Everything is going to be alright. Once everything settles down, everything will be alright."

Lucas wasn't certain that he believed his own words, but he had to make certain that she believed he did. And who knew, perhaps everything _would _turn out okay eventually. Weirder things had happened in the world. After a while, Cuddy calmed; her body relaxed against his.

"Why don't we go back to bed, Babe?" he suggested.

She nodded in agreement and allowed him to guide her back to the bedroom, where they lay wrapped up in each other's arms until they both eventually fell asleep.

(~*~)

1 HIPPA: The Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996. Under this act there is a privacy rule which protects the privacy of individually identifiable health information.

2 MRSA: Methicillin-Resistant Staphylococcus aureus, a bacterium responsible for several difficult-to-treat infections in humans.

3 NICU: Neonatal Intensive Care Unit


	15. Chapter 15 Part 2 Ch 3

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** Back to House and his perspective as well as a proposition!

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Three: Saturday, May 29, 2010; 9:34 A.M.**

The dining hall was empty except for the two of them, doctor and patient, sitting face to face in two chairs. All around them were upturned tables, chairs flung asunder, stacked into odd artistic displays or broken and lying in pieces. Everywhere one looked—on the walls, the ceiling, the windows, the floors, chairs and tables—and all over Gregory House—was breakfast. In House's hair alone was maple syrup, mashed up pancake, the crust off of a piece of toast, the rind from an orange slice and scrambled egg. The rest of him was covered similarly.

Standing at the exits to the room were four orderlies looking conspicuously inconspicuous.

Dressed in her running garb with her raven hair pulled into a messy ponytail Olivia Hutton sat with her legs crossed and her hands folded on her lap. Her eyes and face were unreadable and she simply sat at the filthy man before her; the diagnostician squirmed a little in his seat and absently scraped jam out of his ear with one of his long fingers. His face held a smirk and his eyes twinkled mischievously.

"Rebellion is such a dirty word," House told her.

Hutton didn't respond. She simply continued to stare at him. One thing was certain, he noticed as he looked back: she didn't appear to find that very amusing which was too bad, really, because it actually was quite amusing, especially if you had been there to see it at the time. It brought back one of the only fond memories he had of middle school. The only thing that was putting a damper on things was her penetrating gaze. It was giving him the willies.

"I'd like it to be noted that the food fight was not my idea," he told his therapist, trying to hide his smile. "That was the brainchild of Dissociative Joe, personality number four—or was it five?—I always get them mixed up because they're both female."

Again, she was silent and motionless. House was beginning to wonder if she wasn't one of those bronze sculptures of people found sitting on park benches as if they were real people feeding the pigeons or reading a book. He sighed loudly. He was in shit—he knew it—so he might as well get it over with quickly if not painlessly. However he couldn't bring himself to say those two nasty words that could possibly mitigate his sentence a little. Nope. Instead he had to continue to be a self-destructive idiot for a little bit longer—just because.

"Can I go take a shower?" he asked her, making a show of scratching at his back. "The orange juice Psychotic Franny poured down my shirt is starting to itch."

Finally, Hutton spoke, but the volume and tone of voice she used was far from satisfying for the diagnostician.

"If you're trying to shock me, you can give up now. Actually, I was expecting something like this to happen; I had just hoped I'd have a little more time to prepare for it. Guess not, huh?"

House felt a shiver run down his spine at how calm she was in the midst of the chaos. This was not the reaction he had been expecting and he wasn't quite certain what to do with it.

"Look," House said cautiously, "I know you're probably royally pissed with me but-."

"But I'm _not_ pissed with you, House," she told him, shaking her head. "This was completely expected. If I'm angry at anyone right now, it's at me for not being proactive enough."

He looked at her, completely baffled. Scowling slightly he asked her, "What do you mean by proactive, exactly?"

For the first time since she had arrived to witness the end of the epic food fight that had taken place and was told by staffers that it was instigated by her patient, Hutton smiled thinly, but House could see a sparkle in her eyes and he wondered if that meant that he was going to get off the hook with a disappointed shake of her head and the wagging of her finger. The diagnostician sincerely hoped not; it would mean that his appraisal of her was completely off the mark and he would have working with him yet another milk-toast wannabe.

"In many ways, House," she told him calmly, "you remind me of an eight year old patient I had when I was still trying to figure out what the hell it was I was doing as a psychiatrist. Quit rolling your eyes and listen."

House sighed. He hoped this wasn't another long story of hers. Although, it was better than the alternative he knew was coming as soon as he spied out of the corner of his eye janitorial personnel arriving with buckets full of soapy water, rags and a mop.

"Do I have a choice?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"At this particular moment, no," Hutton replied firmly. "You were a naughty boy at recess—now it's time to face the vice-principal."

A sly, wolfish smile crossed House's face at the mental picture her words created in his mind. Yes, he could definitely see her in a headmistress' uniform, only this one lacked the itchy sweater and woolen skirt with heavy woolen stockings and comfortable shoes. Instead he pictured Hutton with her hair down around her shoulders, a cropped cut white blouse the top buttons of which lay undone, pulling the eye to descend almost all the way down past the lacy push-up bra to her navel, exposing cream, flawless white skin and ample, buoyant breasts. In her hand she carried a ruler in case any naughty students needed to be given the strap. This was bottomed with a mini skirt and smooth, silky bare legs that were toned and strong and went on forever-.

"Stop picturing me in sexy school marm garb and pay attention!" Hutton said loudly enough to break House's creative imaginings and bring him back to the real world. He folded his hands across his lap strategically, hoping that it wasn't too obvious what he was doing. He'd allowed himself to get a little too absorbed into that picture. He looked to Hutton and found her both frowning and smiling with her mouth if not her eyes. If he had to guess, she was more amused than angry but he couldn't tell for certain.

"Don't blame me," House told her. "You're the one who brought it up-."

"Fine, whatever," she cut him off, and took a deep breath. She looked tired. "You remind me of a bored hyperactive eight year old going crazy being cooped up in the house on a rainy day. I underestimated how long it would take you to go stir-crazy and bored in here. You're a brilliant man and you need to keep your mind engaged and challenged, otherwise you turn to your own devices to keep yourself entertained. That combined with your own unique sense of humor has led to-," she gestured with her hands to take in the food plastered room in one sweep, "—this."

"I didn't cause…_this_," House said, mimicking her gestures. "Dissociative Joe was bitching about the food and saying that the staff was trying to kill them all off by malnutrition. All I did was point out that the food here tastes likes leftovers from the Kennedy administration. That got everyone who can carry on a fairly coherent conversation talking about how much they hated the food but there wasn't anything anyone could do about it. I suggested that there is power in numbers and if they told the hospital together that they want better, the staff will have to listen. That's when Lou decided to dump his plate of runny scrambled eggs onto Joe and the food fight was born; I had nothing to do with it. Not a single slice of half-cooked bacon was tossed by these hands."

He felt her eyes scrutinize him carefully for a heartbeat before asking, "That's all you did? You didn't do anything non-verbal, perhaps, to encourage the others?"

House sighed. Why was it he was always suspected of being the instigator of trouble when usually he wasn't? Certainly he was guilty of a good amount of mischief in his life, but usually those things he did that others called troublemaking was really only a means to acquiring what he needed to solve a case or garner what he needed to best treat one of his patients or prevent someone else from doing something incredibly stupid. Only occasionally did he engage in misbehavior for the sole purpose of being a pain in someone's ass. Cuddy could never understand that, nor Wilson for that matter. They both had known him for years, but hadn't in all that time realized that he simply didn't care enough about other people to piss away his time coming up with ways to make their lives miserable simply for the hell of it.

Two months after Amber's death, just before Wilson had walked out of House's life for the first time, the younger man had accused him of spreading misery to everyone who crossed his path because he didn't know how to do anything else. Wilson had been completely off the mark, but House hadn't bothered to waste his time trying to change his mind about that; it would have been pointless because that's what his 'best friend' wanted to believe and no logic would be able to defeat his faith in House's depravity.

When the diagnostician failed to dignify her question with an answer, he saw her face drop. She looked away from his eyes for a moment and when she looked back he saw contrition in them.

"House, I'm sorry," she said softly, her voice heavy with remorse. "That was a horrible thing for me to ask you. I don't know why I assumed you had to be to blame instead of taking you at your word. I hope you can forgive me."

That took the patient by surprise and he failed to hide that fact from her. He stared at her with disbelieving eyes. House was used to being suspected and accused; he was not accustomed to having someone who did so not only acknowledge that she was wrong but to also _willingly_ apologize for it.

Before he realized he was doing it, House nodded, still speechless.

"I was told that you were the instigator by the staff," Hutton told him, shaking her head in dismay, "but from what you've said all you did was make a suggestion that the patients be proactive instead of reactive. There is nothing wrong with what you did—in fact, you were trying to teach them a positive, assertive way to present their grievances."

House said nothing; he simply looked at her impassively.

"Did you explain this to the staff?" she inquired, concerned.

"No."

"Why not?" Hutton demanded quietly, appraising him with troubled eyes.

House looked away when he answered, "It wouldn't have made any difference. When I was here the first time I was a pain in everyone's ass for the first few weeks. I resented the hell out of being forced to undergo therapy after I had detoxed and the hallucinations were gone. Nolan told me he wouldn't recommend to the state medical board that I get my license to practice back until I submitted. I decided I would be such a troublemaker that Nolan would be more than willing to send the recommendation and discharge me just get things back to normal around here. It almost worked, until I did something very stupid and selfish and almost cost another person to die. After that there was a number of medical and non-medical staff here that determined I would always be nothing but trouble, no matter how much I tried to cooperate. Many of those people still work here, so since I arrived here this time three incidences have been assumed to be my fault, even the two where I wasn't even in the same wing of the hospital when they occurred."

The psychiatrist sighed, a full-fledged scowl forming as she glanced across the room at the kitchen staff and two nurses whom stood gossiping behind the serving window as they watched her and House.

"That absolutely should not be happening," she told him firmly. "That is completely unprofessional and unacceptable."

"Yeah," House said, shrugging in frustration, "well, I'm used to it."

"How do you mean?"

Sighing, the diagnostician explained, "Let's just say that the same sentiments are held by just about everyone I work or associate with back home. It's so common place, I barely even notice it anymore."

"_Notice_ it, House," she insisted, leaning forward in her seat. "Don't accept that kind of treatment. Set the boundary that says that your past does not dictate your future and you insist on being given the same assumption of innocence and respect as anyone else—because you are just as deserving of it as anyone else."

He said nothing for a moment. He knew that he was telling her the truth about what happened, but how did she? He could have been lying to her and really had been responsible for the food fight for all she knew. Why would Hutton take his word over the word of…well, of everyone else? Was she stupid and naïve, or was there another reason entirely? He had to know.

"Why do you believe my story over theirs?" House asked her warily. "How do you know I'm not lying to you?"

"Because according to you, most people automatically assume you're to blame when something goes wrong," Hutton answered. "You didn't stand up to the staff and tell them that you were innocent because you figured they either wouldn't believe you or wouldn't care. You have a history of allowing your boss, your work associates—even your best friend—to disregard your feelings and your worth because you don't believe that standing up for yourself before them will make any difference—yet you defended yourself to me fully expecting me not to believe you and to punish no matter what you said. You had no reason to lie to me. Usually if a person doesn't have a reason to lie they don't, unless they have a serious underlying pathology that you do not possess. I do not buy into the idea that you are inherently evil or dishonest. Therefore, I believe you have told me the truth. That, and…." she allowed her voice to fade away.

"And what?" the diagnostician demanded, curiously.

Hutton smiled with amusement. "That, and as the other patients were being filed out of here Lou admitted to me that he started the fight and that you weren't responsible."

House had to smirk at that. All of her technical psychoanalytical explanations for her belief in him and it all truly boiled down to a confession to her by someone else. She had him going there for a minute and her smile told him that she'd known it.

"So you never intended on pinning this on me?" he clarified, shaking his head. "You were testing me to see whether I'd be truthful with you, or what?"

"It wasn't a test," Hutton assured him. "I didn't know if Lou told me the truth until you told me pretty much the identical story as he did. I knew you hadn't coached him because he didn't use one phrase or significant word you did and I'm pretty certain he isn't capable of coming up with a lie that was as believable as his confession. I wasn't making assumptions either way and when I asked you if you were certain you hadn't instigated it, it was simply my own idiocy and insensitivity, not some test.

"Now, as to what happens right now concerning this mess," she continued, "I'll make certain the staff is made aware of the truth and they will decide whether or not to round up the culprits truly responsible to clean this up. You have the option of sticking around and volunteering to help out or…taking a quick shower, getting changed and joining me outside for our exercise."

"I'll take what's behind door number two, Monty," House replied with a smirk. Hutton spoke to the nurses and kitchen staff about the situation. House, who had remained where he was seated, watched the exchange. He could see the staffers trying to argue with the psychiatrist but she was having none of it. He couldn't make out what was being said but he could hear the tones being used; Hutton's voice held certainty and finality as well as an edge of warning to anyone who would try to raise another objection among them. He couldn't help but think that she was a firecracker; the diagnostician was glad that in this case she was in his corner, not theirs.

Hutton returned to where he was sitting after a couple minutes of 'discussion'. She looked even more tired than before and House didn't fail to notice.

"Go take your shower and meet me in the Common Area in fifteen," she told him with a weak smile.

House nodded, and then made his way back to his room with an orderly by his side.

("~*~")

It felt so good to be on the adapted tricycle again, pumping away on the hand pedals, racing against the marathoner running along side of him as they navigated the perimeter of the hospital grounds. It was a cloudy day, threatening rain, and a little chillier than the first time House had been out exercising like this but he was working up a good sweat and barely noticed the temperature.

"So are you doing anybody?" House asked the psychiatrist, glancing over at her occasionally. Her black ponytail bounced with every stride she took, and that wasn't the only part of her to bounce, House noted with a smile.

"That's quite the personal question!" Hutton said in reply.

"We already covered the weather," the diagnostician retorted. Her face was flushed from exertion so he had no idea if she was embarrassed by the question.

"Why don't you ask me about my job, or what St. Luke's is like or about my kids?" she inquired, smiling.

"Don't care, don't care and don't care," he told her honestly. "From your reluctance to answer, I take it your answer is no."

Hutton cocked her head. "Not currently, no," she admitted, appearing to be unphased. "I was seeing one guy about six months ago. It lasted all of three days but damn! What an incredible three days they were."

House was dubious. "Seriously? I didn't realize you were so easy."

"Hey!" she countered with a frown. "If I were a guy you'd be congratulating me and digging for details but because I'm a woman I'm condemned as being easy?"

"Who was condemning?" House demanded, smirking. "I like easy."

"And cheap, no doubt," Hutton threw back at him sarcastically.

"One without the other is like chips without the dip," he defended, grinning now. "So, if I dig for details will you tell me any?"

"A lady doesn't screw and tell, House," was her blunt response.

"When I see a lady I'll remember that," the diagnostician quipped in quick return. Hutton only laughed and shook her head at him. When she stopped laughing she deftly changed the subject.

"So what do you suggest we do to keep you occupied and out of trouble during your stay here at the lovely and historic Chez Mayfield?" she asked him, her words in perfect rhythm with her breathing.

"One-eight hundred-dial-a-whore," he told her. "Don't worry, I know Wilson's credit card number and they deliver."

"Besides that," Hutton said, looking amused. "Hospital policy forbids illegal activities and anything else fun."

"Tell me about it," House agreed dryly. "Besides, I find myself fresh out of condoms and I noticed this facility doesn't employ vending machines in the bathrooms."

"Go figure," she said, shrugging. "Seriously, though. You have a brilliant mind and it shouldn't go stagnant when you're not involved in therapy. Your patient file tells me that you're quite the handful when you get bored and are left to your own devices. What sorts of things do you enjoy doing in your free time?"

"I thought you just said the hospital forbids illegal activities?" he asked sarcastically, earning a dirty look. For having received the response he was looking for, he rewarded her by saying more seriously, "I watch TV, mostly monster truck rallies, the L-Word and my favorite soap opera on TIVO. I play my piano and the guitar. I watch porn; I drink, and try to annoy the hell out of Wilson and Cuddy. Or, at least I used to. These days they avoid me like the plague unless it's to gripe at me about something I've done or failed to do or to sermonize about the error of my ways."

"You spend a lot of time alone?" she clarified. House simply nodded.

"That sucks," she commiserated without pity. "Looks like something that we'll be taking a look at in session. Do you have any other hobbies or interests that you enjoy but don't get a lot of opportunity to engage in—other than sex?"

"I used to play Lacrosse in high school; I ran, played the odd round of golf with Wilson but the infarction changed that," he answered. "I enjoy chess. I took a couple of cooking classes with Wilson. I like doing it but it requires a lot of standing which is difficult for me. Basically for the past ten years my life has been my job and…Wilson."

House fell silent when he thought about how pathetic his life sounded. The fact was, much of what he used to have outside of those two things were stolen from him by the infarction. The only thing that had got him through the infarction itself was Wilson's friendship and outside of that, through the loss of Stacy, Wilson's marriages, Tritter, Amber's death, Wilson's leavings, both emotional and physical, his hallucinations, recovery, and Cuddy was his job-his compulsive, obsessive need and extraordinary ability to solve the medical conundrums that other doctors couldn't. Slowly, however, as he lost Wilson's attention and friendship to the blonde usurper and watched Cuddy 'move on' with her man-child Lucas, not even the puzzles were enough to keep him interested in living.

"House," she told him, "That was the past paradigm that has been keeping you in a state of insecurity and isolation. It's time to change that paradigm and see the world for what it is—a place of third alternatives and many possibilities. The people you've associated with have not been healthy for you. Would you say that you're a likable person?"

A derisive snort was part of his answer. "If I were likable, would I be alone?" he answered her question with a question.

"What would you say if I told you that yes, you can be likable and end up alone?" she answered quickly with yet another question. "You're an atheist, I realize, but do you have any knowledge of the Bible at all?"

"I went to church with my parents when I was a kid," he admitted, "and I've read the Bible through. I've also read the Koran…what's your point?"

"In the New Testament we read that Jesus Christ is training his disciples and the throngs of people who follow him and he gives them some very wise advice," Hutton explained. "He tells them not to give sacred things to dogs or throw that which is as precious and beautiful as pearls to pigs because if you do they may trample them under their feet and then turn around and tear you apart."

"Matthew chapter seven," House acknowledged, earning a look of surprise from the psychiatrist. "I remember the subject vaguely," he demurred.

"Of course you do," she commented without sarcasm. "With all due respect, House, and in my humble opinion, of course, that's what you've been doing most of your life without being aware of it. You've been surrounded by dogs and pigs that, due to any number of reasons, have been incapable of appreciating your true value. You've given them your friendship, your mentorship, your talents and skills and your love. All of those things are priceless, they truly are. Because they can't value you the way you deserve to be valued, they trample all over everything you've given them; you haven't asserted your own value and your boundaries with them because you've accepted their ignorance as wisdom. You've internalized their folly and told yourself that because _they_ don't value you _you're_ worthless. The dogs and pigs have been tearing you apart in the process. Stop allowing that to happen! Stop pouring yourself out to that kind of people and move on to those who are wise and intelligent enough to fully appreciate your worth. There's a lot of them out there who are worthy of your friendship. Perhaps you should consider moving on to them."

House felt greatly unsettled by what she was saying. He knew there was a great deal of truth to her words, although as to her assertion that he was very valuable he questioned her appraisal. He couldn't accept the idea of Wilson being a dog or a pig. Wilson acknowledged the diagnostician's intelligence and talents. Their relationship over the years had had some very good periods. As he'd told Nolan, the oncologist was no consolation prize; that was true even if he did treat the older doctor as one sometimes.

_But if he treats you like one at all, then he obviously doesn't value you as much as you value him_, House's internal voice argued with him. _Just because you value his friendship doesn't mean he values yours_. Wilson had told him that he was in love with him. He wanted an intimate relationship with him now. _But he was in love with his ex-wives, too, and he valued them so much that he cheated on them._

"We'll be looking at the difference between healthy and unhealthy relationships in session," Hutton told him after waiting for him to respond and receiving nothing from him, "but I want you to think about something until we do."

"Yeah," House asked skeptically, "and what's that?"

"In a healthy relationship, be it romantic or platonic, both partners are built up and validated and the net result for each person is a positive one. If that's not the case, then chances are the relationship is unhealthy. Has your relationship with Wilson, or Cuddy or anyone else you've known in the past, oh, let's say ten years resulted in both of you being built up, validated and happy? If not, then those relationships will only be a drain on your psychological and physical health. Only _you_ can answer that question but you need to be completely honest with yourself."

The diagnostician didn't say anything; instead he mulled over her words for several minutes in silence. As they finished their run, Hutton approached House, panting a little heavier than she had the last time they'd exercised like this.

"I have an idea for something you can do to keep yourself occupied," she told him. "You can think it over and decide if it's something you want to do. Currently your medical license has been suspended by the State of New Jersey, but that doesn't disqualify your training and expertise. I know a hospital administrator who is interested in acquiring your advice on cases passing through his hospital. Of course, you can't actually make medical decisions or treat patients, but you could look over the cases and offer your ideas to the doctors of record as a 'professional courtesy'. It doesn't involve money, but I'm pretty sure it's more interesting than putting together puzzles in the common area."

"_I'm_ pretty sure Nolan wouldn't approve frequent leaves off of hospital property for me to attend differentials at St Luke's," he answered pointedly, letting her know that he knew which hospital she was referring to and that she'd already set it all up before coming to him with the idea. He didn't know whether to be angry at her presumption or flattered by her confidence in his skills.

"House!" she said in mild surprise. "Haven't you ever heard of cyber meetings? They have a computer with a webcam and I can make certain you're provided with one to use as well. There is no formal diagnostics department at St. Luke's but you can still discuss cases with the doctors. At least four doctors have shown interest in this, that is, if you're interested. It's up to you. You can tell me your decision on Monday at our next run. Whatever you decide is fine, so don't feel pressured to say yes. I did a little testing of the waters without telling you, but only so that I could offer you an option that was truly available if you choose to take it-but I'm not trying to force anything on you. Okay?"

He didn't need time to think about it. It wasn't as good as being in charge of his own cases, but it was a hell of a lot better than being forced to watch game shows on the community television or playing Canasta with people who were either catatonic or were convinced that aliens were trying to read their minds.

"I'll do it," he told her. "When do I start?"

Hutton smiled warmly and looked a little relieved as well. "How does Tuesday strike you?"

House allowed himself a little smile.

**A/N 2: Sorry if this chapter sucked. I hit some writer's block and I'm still not too certain why. While I was stuck with Resurrection I took some time to participate in the Camp Sick!Wilson over on LJ, but I didn't forget about this story. Oh well, hopefully next chapter will make up for it! Thanks for sticking with me.**


	16. Chapter 16 Part 2 Ch 4

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** Hi! Sorry for the long waits between updates but I've had a lot on my plate lately. I find that one update a week is about all I can produce right now. I hope this chapter makes up for it. I've had a few comments about placing too much focus on Hutton's personal life. While this story is primarily on House, Hutton's influence on him is going to be a large one, so her back story does require a little bit of attention itself. This update starts off with a look at some of that back story but the last half is House and his thoughts about their conversation Saturday morning. Enjoy!

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Four: Sunday, May 30, 2010; 7:45 P.M.**

It was Betty Nolan who answered the door bell. She smiled warmly when she saw who it was.

"Olivia!" she greeted, waving the guest in and stepping aside so that she could. "It's so good to see you again!" The lovely African-American woman in her mid-fifties gave Hutton a warm hug and shut the front door once the psychiatrist was inside.

"Good to see you, too!" was Hutton's honest reply. "You look incredible Betty! Every time I see you I wonder how old man Nolan managed to catch you!" Her mentor's wife was a beautiful woman with a body Hutton envied who looked at least twenty years younger than she really was. Her personality outshone her looks.

"Humph," Betty told her, "Catch me? Honey, I showed mercy."

Hutton grinned at that and gave her jacket to the other woman, who hung it up for her.

"Honey," Betty said after they stepped out of the foyer and into the main living area of the large, tastefully decorated ranch-style home, "have you lost weight since the last time I saw you?"

Hutton forced herself not to frown or roll her eyes. She was tired of people asking her that question. Admittedly she had involuntarily lost approximately twenty-five pounds since Easter, but she didn't feel she looked that much differently at all. She'd lost perhaps a dress size, nothing all that significant.

"A little, I guess," she answered, trying to sound nonchalant about it.

"A little?" Betty echoed doubtfully, shaking her head. "Olivia, you've always been on the thin side but you're looking too thin, Honey! I'm going to go find some of that cake you like so much and try to fatten you up a little. Darryl's in the study. Go on in, he's expecting you."

"Thanks," Hutton said with a weak smile, watching her depart for the kitchen; the psychiatrist made her way past the formal living room and dining room to a long, wide corridor that ran pretty much the entire length of the long arm of the L-shaped abode. Along the one side of the corridor all the way down were large sun-windows that allowed for an incredible view of a large, perfectly cultured rose garden. She had always admired the yard and how meticulously it was maintained. A gardener was employed to care for the rest of the yard but the rose garden was a labor of love for the Nolans and they maintained it entirely themselves.

At the very end of the hall were two French doors that were curtained on the other side. This was Darryl's space, a masculine retreat from the admittedly feminine-leaning interior décor. The faint sound of music could be heard. Hutton knocked lightly on the wood frame of the door.

"Come," came the response from within.

The female psychiatrist twisted the door knob and opened the door slowly then stepped into the warmly lit study and shut the door behind her. Nolan sat in a deep mahogany-colored leather chair, his eyes closed as he listened to Charlie Parker, a look of contentment on his face. Hutton couldn't help but smile at that; she wondered what House's reaction would be to seeing him this way. It just might change his opinion about the older psychiatrist somewhat—personalize him. It was easy for a patient to forget that one's therapist was just as human as he is. Detachment was a necessity in the doctor-patient relationship, although some doctors were more detached than others; as a physician House knew that. However, when a doctor became a patient, certain inside knowledge tended to slip the mind from time to time.

"You look almost cherubic," Hutton told him suddenly, causing him to open an eye in mild surprise. "It's amazing how deceiving appearances can be."

Now the older psychiatrist opened both eyes and smiled. "You look like someone witty," he told her pointedly.

"Ouch! My delicate self-esteem is bleeding!" she retorted playfully, taking a seat on the matching leather sofa at a right angle to him. "Somebody's been taking his dementia meds recently."

"Betty takes good care of me," he told her, sitting up somewhat in his seat. He took a good look at her and then frowned a little. "Maybe you need her to look after you too. You look like you could use it."

"Flatterer," Hutton smirked.

"I'm serious," he said soberly. "I noticed it a couple of weeks ago but it wasn't a good time to bring it up. You've lost weight and you're looking fatigued again."

"Well, your lovely wife has already set to work on fattening me up," the younger psychiatrist told him, trying to sound more confident than she felt. If there was anyone she knew who could cut through her bullshit and see what was really happening with her it was him. "Before I leave she'll make certain I eat way too much of that heavenly triple chocolate cake she makes."

Nolan wasn't dissuaded, and his concerned frown remained on. "A trigger has been tripped. What was it?"

Hutton sighed in irritation. This was not the reason she had called him and told him she was coming over; she had intended to bring up what had happened with House at Mayfield the day before and make some suggestions on how to follow up on things with the staff. There were triggers for her everywhere—that didn't mean that any of them had been tripped. She'd been perfectly fine for three years already and nothing had changed.

"I just have a heavy work load right now," Hutton told him, trying to sound convincing. "Roth has every department tightening our belts and getting ready for the state inspection in a week. I've been working a few extra hours but things will settle down after the inspection and I'll get a chance to catch up on sleep and actually eat proper meals again."

He smiled thinly at her—the smile that said that he didn't believe one damned word she had just said.

"Okay," he said simply, staring her down. What he was really saying was _'Who the hell do you think you're kidding?' _He had the most penetrating of gazes that nearly drove her to distraction sometimes. She wanted to ask him what he meant by that even though they both knew that she knew what he had meant. She wasn't going to give him that satisfaction this time.

"I came over to talk to you about a problem between your staff and House that I became blatantly aware of yesterday," Hutton told him slipping into colleague-mode instead of the patient-mode Nolan was trying to force her into.

"Is something wrong with one of the kids?" Nolan asked her, unphased by her attempt to change the subject. "Health problems? Behavioral problems? Your in-laws causing trouble again?"

Sighing loudly the female psychiatrist shook her head, frowning in frustration. She knew he was going to go down a seemingly endless list of stressors until he broke down her resistance and she concocted an answer for him just to end the subject. She could either play along now and perhaps get it over with sooner, or resist the topic and draw it out forever.

"Darryl," she asked wearily. "What time of year is it?"

He looked at her blankly for less than half a second before closing his eyes and shaking his head at himself.

"The anniversary of Marcus' death passed and I forgot all about it," he groaned and then looked at her with dark, apologetic eyes. "I'm sorry Liv."

Hutton nodded in acknowledgement and to signal that there were no hard feelings. "It's not just that. I stopped eating at David's tenth birthday party in January. Marcus and I had made plans just before he died to take the family to Disneyworld on his tenth birthday because we figured he'd be old enough to actually participate and remember it and young enough to still get all caught up in the 'magic' of it. I haven't been able to eat an entire meal since; a bite here, a nibble there. I have no appetite and what I do eat feels like it burns a hole in my stomach. Sleep hasn't been my companion, either. I'm getting at the most three hours a night although I do occasionally sneak a nap in between appointments if I can.

"No forced vomiting?" Nolan asked, leveling his gaze on her.

Shifting uncomfortably in her seat she shook her head. "No, no _forced_ vomiting." Hutton felt a little resentful of his question.

"So you _are_ vomiting, though?" he clarified, still looking at her suspiciously. "How often?"

Rolling her eyes the younger psychiatrist answered almost petulantly, "Two, maybe three times a week. It's spontaneous—I'm not sticking my fingers down my throat, okay?"

"How long were you going to wait before you told me?" the older psychiatrist asked her sternly. "When you _did_ start sticking your fingers down your throat? Or were you going to wait until after your next heart attack, assuming you survived it?"

"Stop it!" she told him angrily, just barely keeping herself from shouting. This was ridiculous! He was blowing things completely out of proportion. "This is not like that—I am far from being in that place again. Besides, I like the way I look—I feel no compulsive need to lose weight. It's just happening."

"Liv, we both know that it was never about your weight!" he reminded her severely. "It's about control. I don't have to tell you that. After Marcus died unexpectedly and left you to raise Stephania and David all on your own you felt like you had no control over the situation, that things were happening that you had no power or say over and it terrified you. The Bulimia was your way of taking control over something in your life when you felt like everything else was nothing but chaos. You know as well as I do that the root cause of eating disorders has nothing to do with weight. That's just a red herring, a means for the mind to trick you into believing that taking this control is a necessary step for you."

"Thank you for the psych lesson," Hutton snarled bitterly. "I must have missed that lecture. I didn't come over tonight to be psychoanalyzed—I came to talk to you about the problems that exist between your staff and House. It's important that something is done about it if House is ever going to cooperate fully with therapy. Members of the medical and support staffs are using House's behavior in his first hospitalization to discriminate against him during this one. Every time an incident occurs House is the one who is blamed. There is no investigation, no evidence and no witnesses to his guilt, he is simply assumed to be responsible and disciplined accordingly—even when he's absolutely not guilty and there is evidence to support his innocence. He's given up trying to defend himself because he's not listened to anyway. It has to stop, Darryl. What he did the last time he was hospitalized should have no bearing on his current treatment during this hospitalization."

"You have proof that this is happening?" Nolan asked, reluctantly changing subjects—temporarily. "Something more than just his word for it?"

"Yes—for two of the three incidents. The incident on Saturday is aside from those. Yesterday, there was a food fight at breakfast. I arrived at Mayfield to take House out for our morning exercise to be told by two nurses that he had started a food fight and was inciting patient rebellion against the hospital staff. I went directly to the dining hall and along the way the other patients were being filed out of the hall. One of them stopped to tell me how he had instigated things, not House. I entered the hall to find House being held down in a chair by one of the gorillas you employ as orderlies. He was not, in any way, struggling or resisting. I told the orderly to take a hike. I spoke with him about what happened, he told me, in different words, exactly what the other patient did. He's given up defending himself because your staff won't listen. I had a talk with the accusing nurses and they admitted that they didn't actually hear or say what they had claimed. It's inexcusable, Darryl. It has to stop."

"You're right," came his immediate agreement. "I'll look into it first thing tomorrow morning."

Hutton stared at his carefully constructed mask of impassivity for a long moment. That was too easy; her mentor didn't always take too well to being told what he should or shouldn't be doing when it came to his hospital. His eyes bored into her and she felt completely exposed before him; she hated feeling that way.

"It's not the Bulimia," she whispered, desperately wanting him to believe her. She'd battled that bitch and had won, just as she had the Oxycontin addiction. "I don't know what it is, but it's not that. I…I think I might be really sick."

"Then see a doctor and find out," he told her simply, spreading out his hands before her.

"I will," Hutton assured him with a nod. It wasn't a lie, exactly. She would see a doctor, but only when she found the courage inside of herself to do so. She wasn't there yet and she wasn't certain when she would be.

"Tomorrow," he told her. "I want to go with you; I'm free after two o'clock tomorrow afternoon."

"You don't trust me to keep my word?" she demanded defensively; she hadn't expected him to call her bluff.

"No," he answered simply, with a sliver of a smile on his lips. His expression was more one of amusement than mockery. Nolan knew her far too well. "Stop by Mayfield at two, Liv. Dr. Travis is an excellent G.P. and I have some influence—I'm pretty sure I can get you in to see him on short notice. If this isn't Bulimia then whatever it is could be serious and putting it off might endanger your life unnecessarily. Steph and David need you around for a good long time."

Nodding, Hutton acknowledged that he was right. She had to face her fears, not run away from them. Besides, Stephania and David weren't the only ones who needed her. Her patients did too, but perhaps none so much as House.

"Okay," she told him, her voice trembling a little. "You've got a deal."

("~*~")

House approached the nursing station and tapped on the safety glass that separated him from the swing-shift charge nurse sitting at the desk, charting. Her name was Harris, but he called her Harass because of the way she was always in his face for the littlest things_: Greg, no smoking indoors! Greg, foot off of the chair! Greg, stop pestering Lou while he's napping! Greg, quit sucking on that lolly-pop like that—it's obscene! Greg, did you put this kick-me sign on (Paranoid) Patricia?_ He didn't know what her problem was—she was new at Mayfield and hadn't been around the first time he was there. Maybe she hadn't been laid in, oh, a hundred years or so? Perhaps he should introduce her to Sex-Addict Steve…?

Nurse Harass looked up and the moment she saw it was him her face contorted into a scowl. She opened the small window through which the patients were issued their meds.

"What do you want, Greg?" she asked him suspiciously.

"I _want_ Nurse Darenko in a string bikini and four-inch heels in my room at nine," he told her with a smirk. "I'll _settle_ for the key to the piano."

Sighing as if he was asking for something incredibly outrageous, Harass rose from her chair and went over to the pegboard where dozens of sundry keys hung efficiently organized and labeled. Everything in Mayfield was locked up tight, including the magazine cabinet; if someone wanted to read a dog-eared copy of TV Guide from nineteen-seventy-two he or she had to beg a nurse with a key to open it up. Harass selected a key from the middle and then made her way out of the nursing station. She led him to the visitor's lounge which was empty that time of night.

"I'd like to know how much you paid Dr. Hutton to have her okay the use of the piano," the charge nurse told him as she unlocked the lid.

"No money exchanged hands," House told her, smiling slyly. "There was an exchange of favors, if you know what I mean." He wagged his eyebrows and gave her an exaggerated wink. "After I favored her, she was willing to give me a key to the doctor's lounge, too."

The nurse looked at him, screwed up her face and shook her head in disapproval. "Dr. Hutton is an intelligent, beautiful woman who would have nothing to do with that kind of exchange, especially with someone like you. You've got thirty minutes; then I'm coming back and locking it up again."

She marched off. House had the momentary urge to shove the piano up her fat ass then reminded himself that he could never do anything so obscene to an innocent musical instrument. He opened the lid and then allowed his long, tapered fingers to caress the keys almost lovingly. When he had demanded access to the piano, he hadn't actually expected Hutton and Nolan to agree. When Hutton had, he'd seen something akin to understanding in her eyes, like she got it. Music wasn't just a hobby or a diversion, although at times it had functioned in that capacity; it was his outlet, his one place where he could openly express who he was, what he was thinking and feeling and not have to worry about offending anyone or being mocked or judged by other people. When he played, it became an extension of his soul; it lifted him away from the chaos and hurt and physical pain that surrounded and were within him every single day of his life.

As a child, music had been something he'd had in common with his mother and it drew them together in ways his father never liked or understood. To John House, career military man and all-round hard ass, music was pointless, for sissies, unless it was military in nature; taps on a bugle was okay—Beethoven on the piano was not.. He'd tried to discourage his son's love for it but couldn't. Music wasn't something separate from him; it was a part of him and in this one thing Blythe House refused to back down or cave to her husband's bullying.

House sat down and began to play around, not really playing anything serious but simply getting a feel for this piano; every piano, like every woman, had a particular touch. Once he had a feel for this lady—he gathered it quickly as he remembered how it had felt when he had sat there with Lydia and played—he began to play actual pieces from memory. As he played, he thought and whatever it was he thought about influenced what it was he played. The only thing he was lacking was a glass of bourbon sitting on the ledge.

What had been on his mind the most all day was the question Hutton had posed to him as she ran and he hand-pedaled the trike alongside her the morning before.

_In a healthy relationship… both partners are built up and validated…If that's not the case, then chances are the relationship is unhealthy. Has your relationship with Wilson, or Cuddy…resulted in both of you being built up, validated and happy? If not, then those relationships will only be a drain on your psychological and physical health…._

Were both he and Wilson built up by each other? Did they validate each other? Was House really happy in their relationship? House replayed in his head the past two decades from the moment he had first seen the young oncologist wandering around the New Orleans convention, sad and puppy-dog-eyed, carrying the divorce papers Samantha Carr-Wilson had had her lawyers send to him while in Louisiana, to the last time he had spoken to Wilson just a few days prior at St Luke's.

Of course, there had been many, many good times that they had shared together, times when House came as close as he ever had to being 'happy'; most of those hadn't been on or at any specific occasion or place because the way they interacted wasn't like that. There had been hours spent in one or the other's living rooms, watching TV, throwing insults and other light banter back and forth, getting drunk, eating pizza. Sometimes it was Christmas, or Hanukkah or even Bosses with Bodacious Boobs Day (okay, he had made that one up, but House really thought it had potential for going viral worldwide). There had been the many times House had charged into Wilson's office without knocking first, angering, embarrassing or simply annoying his friend, depending upon whether or not he was in there with a patient. There had been the outbreaks of practical jokes which usually had escalated until brought to an end by Cuddy, angry next-door neighbors or the police. There had been innumerable stolen lunches and philosophical discussions and Rating Her Rack nights at a local bar; extraordinary ordinary times that the diagnostician wouldn't trade for anything in existence. Had they validated each other? Built each other up? Yes, in their own sick, dysfunctional, maladjusted kind of way, they had.

However, there had been many, many bad times, terrible times. The nights of listening to Wilson as he sobbed over his break-up with Sam the first go around for them; the infarction and House's extreme bitterness and distrust that led him to attack anyone and everyone who tried to console or help him, including Stacy, and including Wilson. Stacy had given up and ran away, but Wilson had stood his ground, put up with the diagnostician's shit for only so long, and then had kicked his ass back into shape with a combination of tough love and incredible patience; the two times when, just as they were getting close, Wilson would become quickly involved with and marry a woman and push House away in the process; Wilson's two additional divorces and their devastating aftermaths on the younger man both emotionally and financially where Wilson would show up at House's door broken-hearted and the older man would welcome him in and in his own way help his friend get over them (which became one of the good times eventually); the trials and tribulations with Detective Michael Tritter and the cops own warped idea of justice which had nearly destroyed the doctors' friendship; House's worsening addiction to the Vicodin that allowed him to be able to function most days before landing him in a pool of his own sick many others; the invasion of Cutthroat Bitch a.k.a. Dr. Amber Volakis and Wilson's putting her ahead of his best friend of fifteen-plus years after knowing and dating her only a matter of a couple of months (as per his usual pattern of behavior); Amber's unfortunate accidental death and House's involvement which not only had nearly ended the diagnostician's life but had also seen Wilson's abandonment of their friendship for what House had thought might be forever; Wilson's return to PPTH, lukewarm forgiveness and reestablishment of the most important relationship in House's life; the suicide of Kutner and then House's own descent into drug-and-emotional-trauma-induced insanity which was followed by detox, rehab and release into Wilson's supervision. Finally, there had been Wilson's betrayal and distancing of House once again with the very woman that had been the precipitating factor in the two doctors meeting in New Orleans to begin with.

A full circle, House mused as his fingers danced across the piano keys producing a very slow, dolorous little tune, something suitable for a funeral. He had found friendship and happiness (not to mention had fallen in love) with James Wilson thanks to Sam Carr and now found himself alone again because of her. He hated the woman with an intensity that brought the bitter taste of bile to his mouth every time he so much as pictured her homely face. Sure, she was supposedly out of Wilson's life now, and the oncologist had supposedly just discovered his mad, passionate love for House, but if not for her he may have had a chance of winning Wilson heart, body and soul without all of the pain, rejection and angst of the past few months. He may have not doubted the younger man's declarations of love and devotion; he may have not been reminded of the fact that Wilson was always close and abiding to House until pussy came around to save him from ruining his good, heterosexual, panty-peeling Jewish Doctor image before the world.

Wilson's fucking public image. It had always meant more to the oncologist than any woman or House ever had or ever would. That's why the diagnostician found it impossible to believe that he had actually changed. If the older doctor hadn't attempted suicide and scared the younger into believing that he was about to lose his precious back-up plan, Wilson would still be spooning with Sam every night until he inevitably grew bored and resentful of her and began to screw around with one of her best friends or a more than willing nurse in his department. House would still be watching it all from the sidelines, all alone, waiting for things to implode on Wilson, at which time he would come to him and act as if nothing had happened between them and everything was still good. No apologies, no explanations and complete denial of the truth.

While House couldn't answer the question of whether their relationship during these times was validating and enriching for his younger friend he knew the answer for himself. Each time Wilson pushed the diagnostician away when someone 'better' or more socially acceptable came around, it wounded him deeply. It was a reminder that House was broken, old and undesirable and that his best friend would never put him first or settle just for him. Wilson might think he was in love with him now, but when it became real, when others learned about it—if they ever did—House doubted that love would last very long at all. He wished he could believe that it was real, but he couldn't.

Despite the good times, the bad ones outweighed them. His net fulfillment was on the negative side of the number line. He wasn't happy; he was miserable.

House realized that it really was no surprise; he'd always known that his relationship with Wilson had been warped—now he knew it was unhealthy as well.

As for his relationship with Cuddy? Well, currently there really was no relationship. She had made quite clear in Trenton that she was 'done' with the diagnostician, that she was moving on with Lucas and they were employer and employee only from that moment on. They had once been friends entwined in a love/hate relationship full of flirtation, attraction, anger and angst. Now…well now there was nothing and House wondered if she had any regret about that because he knew that he did. He'd never been in love with her, although he believed he might have fallen in love with her eventually, but never with the intensity and authenticity of the love he had for Wilson. He mourned the loss of her, but he knew he could move on.

He didn't know if he could move on without Wilson; he certainly didn't want to.

The music stopped as House ceased his playing halfway through a bar. He leaned forward, allowing his head to rest against the piano ledge, and closed his eyes. He wasn't certain exactly how long he sat there like that, nor did he know that he was crying silently until he opened his eyes and saw the tears dripping from his face. He wasn't a crier, but since the crane disaster he'd cried more than he had at any other time in his entire life. He hated it; he hated the weakness it represented. He could hear his father's voice mocking him from the grave, calling him a sissy, a girl, a coward, a crybaby. Yet, as much as he refused to admit it to anyone, he felt better after the crying, if only for a short time.

"Shut up, John," House muttered angrily, his hands gripping the edges of the piano with his full strength, causing the muscles in his arms to tremble nearly uncontrollably. "Shut the fuck up you sick bastard!" He lifted his head and shouted, "Shut the fuck up!"

"Greg!"

It was Nurse Harass. She had been coming to lock the piano and send House to his room for the night when she had walked in on his shouting. She walked quickly over to him but stopped a little more than arm's length away just in case. The diagnostician stopped shouting and sighed heavily. He turned to face her, wiping the tears off of his face.

"Relax," he told her, having calmed quickly. "Just a little flashback-no auditory hallucinations happening to get you all hot and bothered. Time's up?"

She nodded, her face softening to something more akin to compassion than pity, which was a good thing for her. If he had sensed her pitying him, he would have made her life miserable for as long as he was committed there, or until she quit, whichever came first. House rose from the bench and pushed it in and closed the cover. Harass locked the piano and then escorted him back to his room. The other patients had already gone to bed.

House undressed until he was down to his boxers, turned off the light in his room and crawled between the coarse hospital sheets. A dim nightlight had been plugged into one of the power outlets so the nursing staff didn't have to blast him with a flashlight at three in the morning to ensure that he was still breathing. He'd been taken off suicide watch and was currently on Q60, the same as the other 'stable' patients on the ward, but even at being checked at once an hour it was next impossible to sleep without the nightlight to spare him.

Shadows cast on the ceiling by the nightlight reminded House of when he was a very young child, before his father had taken the nightlight out of his bedroom telling his mother that she was turning him into a sissy.

He sighed and closed his eyes, knowing that his mind was nowhere near being calm enough to allow him to fall asleep. He spent hours thinking about Wilson; he missed him just as much if not more than he had last year. He had no idea what it was that he was going to do.


	17. Chapter 17

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** House meets with Nolan for some housekeeping, receives an unexpected message and finds himself a puzzle to solve!

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Five: Monday, May 31, 2010; 10:00 A.M.**

House observed Hutton carefully as she returned him to his room after their morning exercise. The psychiatrist had been much more reserved and quiet that morning, talking only if House said something to her first; she appeared to be lost in thought. Something had been troubling her, but she had done a relatively good job of keeping it to herself. She simply hadn't realized that what would be otherwise lost on most people wasn't so on him. He noticed things about other people that most people didn't, and he knew that there was something wrong, though he couldn't place his finger on exactly what it was—yet. He'd find out eventually, of that he had no doubt.

Besides the behavioral anomalies, the diagnostician had noticed again certain physical signs that appeared to be abnormal; he didn't claim to know his therapist well enough to know everything that was normal for her. House simply had been picking up on symptoms of something being amiss for a typical healthy woman her age. He couldn't help himself; he was bored and when something caught his attention and curiosity, he had to investigate.

She was underweight, and had lost weight since he'd first met her. He had no idea what the exact amount she'd lost in total but he guessed anywhere between twenty and thirty pounds, and the loss had been fairly sudden by the looseness of her skin in certain areas of her body. She experienced pain when she drank water after their exercise; the pain wasn't immediate…she winced slightly a couple of seconds after she swallowed, which would be around the same time it reached her stomach. If water was painful, then it had to be something more than an upset stomach or heartburn. Could it be Gastritis or a Peptic ulcer? Those were two possibilities at this initial stage. She was pale and fatigued, all of which could be attributed to a lack of hydration and nutrition due to an avoidance of irritating her stomach or decreased appetite, also symptoms of gastritis or ulcer. He had no way of knowing, at least so far, whether or not Hutton was vomiting or had changes in the frequency or characteristics of her bowel movements. If he could eventually see her vomit he could see if she was bringing up 'coffee grounds' (hemoglobin and other blood proteins that have been denatured or partially digested by stomach acid) or undigested blood-filled stomach contents. If such was present, it would definitely indicate bleeding from the lining of her stomach or from an ulcerous bleed. Such blood loss could result in anemia which in turn could explain the pallor and breathlessness.

An ulcer would actually be good news—they could be treated with antibiotics and H+ inhibitors 1, surgery if absolutely necessary. Gastritis however could be bad news. It was a common medical condition but it could be an indicator of a condition or disease that was much worse. Gastritis had several different causes from stress to bacterial infection to the consumption of too many NSAIDS or other stomach-irritating chemicals to alcoholism and/or liver disease. The worst could be due to chemotherapy treatment, as some of the medications used in the treatment of certain cancers had inflammatory effects on the stomach lining. Finally, it could be due to stomach cancer itself.

That is, if it was gastritis. Only a physical examination and a few other tests could determine that with certainty and he wasn't exactly in the position to order any or run them, much less legally treat her of anything.

House had twenty minutes to shower and change before being escorted to Nolan's office for their Monday morning housekeeping session. The orderly with him knocked on Nolan's door. The psychiatrist called for them to come in. As soon as House stepped through the doorway he wanted to turn around and bolt, or swear a blue streak and hit the therapist in the face for not giving him advance warning. He did neither, only because of the six-foot-five former high school linebacker standing behind him. Sitting in a chair before Nolan's desk was Wilson, dressed as he would for work, looking just as incredible as he always did. His chocolate brown eyes gazed at him expectantly. His expression was practiced neutrality; the one that House knew hid the younger man's true feelings, the one he used when telling one of his patients that he or she was dying.

The diagnostician's heart dropped.

Nolan signaled to the orderly that he could leave. Once he was gone, Nolan nodded to the chair next to Wilson's, silently telling House to sit down. House refused.

"What the hell is going on?" the patient demanded harshly, glaring at one man and then at the other. "What is he doing here?"

"I'll be glad to answer your questions, Greg," Nolan told him calmly but firmly, "but first you need to sit down."

House felt completely unprepared and guarded; his anxiety level was higher than it had been in a couple of days. He tried to cover this up with sarcasm.

"Who's dying?"

Neither Nolan nor Wilson thought it was an amusing comment, which only caused the diagnostician's anxiety to spike higher. He considered turning around and storming out, but knew that the orderly was just outside the door flirting with Nolan's secretary so that wouldn't end satisfactorily. His best bet was simply to go along with the psychiatrist and sit down; that's what he did.

Sitting only a couple of feet away from Wilson, House could smell the familiar scent of the oncologist's aftershave and the fruity smell of his shampoo. All he wanted to do at that moment was lean closer to the man who had been his best friend and bury his face in the crook of the other's neck and inhale deeply. Well, that wasn't all he wanted to do; while he had his face there he wanted to kiss and bite and suckle the delicate skin there, tasting Wilson as well as smelling him.

That wasn't about to happen, the diagnostician told himself firmly.

"I want answers," the patient told the psychiatrist impatiently, shifting his bottom a little in the chair and leaning slightly of his cane set between his knees. "Let me guess," he snipped, looking sideways. "You've reconsidered your bisexuality and came to your senses, Wilson. You've reconciled with Sam and you've come to ask me to be your best man. Cold, warm or flaming hot?"

Wilson looked questioningly at Nolan, seeking permission to answer. The therapist nodded slightly and then Wilson turned to face House.

"I…haven't reconsidered anything, House. Nothing's changed since the last time we spoke, at least, as far as how I feel about you is concerned," the oncologist told him a little haltingly. He sounded as nervous as House felt. "Actually, I've come with news concerning the hospital."

"If Cuddy sent you to try to weasel out a consult from me without having to pay for it, you're out of luck."

"That's not it," Wilson told him, sighing regretfully. "You've always claimed that it's better to know than not to know, so here goes. Cuddy presented a recommendation to the Board that you should be terminated immediately. She claimed all sorts of nonsense about it being for the best of the hospital and its reputation both with the public and among other hospitals and academia. I tried to convince her not to go ahead with it but I failed. I presented a defense for you before the board, but except for my vote the decision to terminate your contract was unanimously passed. I'm sorry, House."

Wilson's regret sounded genuine; the look on his face now was pained and angry.

House took the news in without responding immediately. When he did, it was with a curt nod and, "I was wondering how long it would take her to do this. It's not a surprise; I've been expecting this. Let me guess—she sent you to break the news to me because she was too busy to call or come herself."

Appearing to be a little surprised that the diagnostician's response to news of being fired was as mild as it was, Wilson looked at him confusedly and shook his head slowly.

"Uh, no," was the answer. "Actually, I asked to be the one to tell you. She was going to send you a registered letter in a manila envelope with their termination offer for you to accept and sign. I told her that you deserved a hell of a lot better than that for all of the publicity and donor money you've brought to Princeton-Plainsboro over the years. I didn't bring the offer with me because it's a travesty; they're offering you a couple thousand dollars and a good recommendation for your CV. Don't accept it when it arrives by courier, House. It's garbage. Hold out for a hell of a lot more."

House sighed silently and half-shrugged, struggling to hide his anger, disappointment and fear from both men. "I don't care about the money," he half-lied; money had never been one of the primary motivators of House's life and it still wasn't. However, he needed money to live, and he didn't have very much stored away for a rainy day, as it were. He wouldn't receive anymore paychecks from PPTH and he knew that his chance of obtaining any gainful employment at another hospital was not promising at all. In truth, with his record he would be lucky if he got a job working in a prison infirmary or walk-in medi-clinic somewhere. Even research positions would be difficult to obtain now. His job at PPTH had been his only real chance to practice medicine and do what he did best. With that gone, cash flow took on a new significance.

"Is that all you came to tell me?" he asked, unable to completely keep the sound of defeat out of his voice. "I can tell by the way you're dressed you have to hurry back to work, so don't let me keep you-."

"Damn it!"Wilson exclaimed angrily. "That's it? That's all you have to say about this? This is wrong, House! This is Cuddy's petty way of punishing you for God only knows what reason. Being…ill…is not legal grounds for breaking your tenure and terminating your employment. You're not going to fight? What the hell is the matter with you?"

"James," Nolan spoke up softly, a hint of caution in his voice.

House glared at him, feeling his anger rising. "Look, she's right! I _am_ a liability for the hospital; I always have been. The only reason that I've managed to keep my job there as long as I have is because I've used both Cuddy and you to cover for or save my ass over and over again. In any other hospital I would have been fired years ago. There's no grounds for me to bitch and complain or try to retaliate; I've only brought this on myself."

"I disagree with you, Greg," Nolan told him, shaking his head and earning House's and Wilson's attentions. "What was done was illegal. From what James told me before you arrived, she didn't present valid grounds for dismissal. You can't be fired for being sick; depression is the same as any other serious, treatable disease including cancer. You are undergoing treatment for that illness so there is a valid reason for your extended absence from work. You haven't violated the conditions the hospital placed on you in order to work there by taking Vicodin. Your clean drug tests are in your medical record. It is illegal for the hospital to fire you for exhibiting the symptoms of your disease especially since such symptoms have not resulted in grievous harm to another staff member, patient or member of the public. Dr. Cuddy tried to use James' heroic act of saving your life on the hospital roof as evidence of such grievous harm, but of course that's ridiculous and wouldn't stand up in court, especially if James testified that he voluntarily chose to act.

"Your past behavior is irrelevant if she refused to act on it over the years—any liability would have to be shared by her for any damages that may have been done as a result. You have the true power in this situation; you have clear ground for a law suit for wrongful dismissal."

House listened in silence. When Nolan was done speaking the diagnostician took a deep breath and sighed. "What good would a lawsuit do?" His voice quiet and deep. "Either they keep me on staff and I become the laughing stock and point of gossip for the rest of my career there or I sue and every aspect of my private life becomes public knowledge and I'm humiliated that way. Either way, I end up humiliated, hated and pitied and end up unable to continue practicing medicine in the most effective way I know how. In the future at PPTH Cuddy will block everything I request just to retaliate so I won't be able to treat my patients the way they have to be. No other hospital administrator will take me serious or risk hiring me. How is any of this in my best interest?"

"When you win your millions in the lawsuit you'll have enough to set up your own practice any damned place you want. Then you can practice your style of medicine to your heart's delight and hospitals will come crawling to you to offer you privileges. "

Hutton spoke from the doorway, leaning back against the door with her arms crossing in front of her chest. House and Wilson turned to face her and Nolan looked over to her in surprise. None of the three male doctors had heard her enter, so they were uncertain what all she had heard. She wore a satisfied smirk on her face.

"Sorry to interrupt," she told them without sounding like she was, "but when I caught wind that you were here, Dr. Wilson, I thought it was for the best that I attend."

Nolan smiled slightly. House frowned and Wilson glowered at her. The diagnostician could see that there was no love lost between his primary therapist and the oncologist. He could understand her dislike for Wilson, considering some of the things she and House had spoken about, but Wilson's animosity was a curiosity. Could it be…jealousy he saw in those dark eyes of his?

Hutton's comment intrigued him, but House wasn't about to admit it per se. He did, however, want to hear more.

"May I sit in, Darryl?" she asked Mayfield's chief psychiatrist, perhaps a little late.

"Of course," he replied and House saw something there, something in the way they stared at each other, a silent communication. What the message was, he didn't know, but Hutton didn't look all that impressed. As his primary, she should have been notified as soon as Nolan was of Wilson's presence and the reason. From appearances that didn't seem to have taken place. Interesting.

Hutton dragged a chair from next to the wall to a spot right next to House and took a seat. She wore a pastel yellow blouse that only made her look paler than she had earlier that morning. Perhaps she was paler. House wasn't certain.

"Dr. Wilson," she greeted politely, offering him a nod of acknowledgement. Wilson, always careful about polite appearances, gave her a thin smile and nodded as well.

"Dr. Hutton," he muttered; House could see the tension in the other man's jaw and the small vein in his left temple popped out.

"I believe I caught most of what was said," Hutton announced. "House, in my opinion Dr. Nolan and Dr. Wilson are right. The final decision is up to you , but I strongly believe that you cannot allow Cuddy and the hospital board to get away with this. Don't let them trample all over your rights and your reputation. Fight your dismissal and if you don't receive the response and compensation that you deserve, then sue the pants off of them. It's your turn to make it clear that you're not going to be manipulated and abused by that woman anymore. It's not only a matter of getting what you deserve; it's about establishing your boundaries. It's about self-respect."

House stared at her for a few moments, his eyes searching hers. He then looked at Wilson the same way. He found the same thing in both.

Sighing, he nodded, "Alright. But I want to make it clear that I'm not certain I want to return to work at PPTH. I…I can't work under Cuddy after this."

Hutton nodded in understanding and smiled. "Good boundary making." House looked away from her almost bashfully. It felt good to be affirmed but he wasn't accustomed to it, causing him discomfort upon receiving it.

"I know of a civil lawyer who we can call," Wilson told him. "He's very good and he'll take your case retainer-free, charging only for expenses and court fees. When you win, he'll take a set percentage of the award. Don't worry about the expenses—I'll cover them and then you can pay me back everything you owe me when you win."

House smirked at that, the first amused smirk he'd given Wilson since the suicide attempt that started it all. "And after that I'll have just about enough left to buy dinner—at McDonald's."

Wilson chuckled, his eyes gleaming. He looked absolutely..._beautiful_ that way and House couldn't tear his eyes away from him. "I'll end up paying anyway," the younger man said at that.

"Damned right," House told him with a nod, but his voice was softer than it wouldn't ordinarily be. It was moments like this when he could _almost_ forget about the rejection and pain he'd endured because of the man beside him; _almost_. He wished he could completely, and perhaps someday he could—but not yet. All the same, he wanted so badly to reach over and pull Wilson into a kiss. If he was reading the look in Wilson's eyes right, the other man wanted the same thing.

Things with Wilson wrapped up quickly, with the oncologist telling him that he would be in contact with his lawyer-friend and then get back to Nolan, who would relay things to him. House didn't want him to go, but his session with Nolan wasn't over and his friend had to return to Princeton and work.

"I'll see you on visiting day," Wilson told him with certainty, rising from his chair.

House nodded, hoping very much that he kept his word. Despite their issues, House missed him even more than he'd realized.

"I have to get back to St. Luke's," Hutton announced, rising to leave as well. As she did she paused halfway up and House noticed any color she did have in her face—which was very little to begin with—drained away and she swayed a little on her feet. House frowned; he was about to stand up and grab her before she fell but Wilson was already in the position to act first. He grabbed her arm to steady her.

"Are you alright?" Wilson asked her, frowning slightly. "Maybe you should sit down again?"

House concurred. He glanced over at Nolan. The older psychiatrist looked more than a little concerned, but there was something more there as well. He didn't appear to be surprised, almost like he'd suspected that something like this could happen. So…Nolan knew that there was something wrong with Hutton. The question was, how much did he know and how was House going to get that information out of him?

"No, really," she responded as a little flush hit her cheeks like bright pink streaks of blusher brushed onto her face by a small child. "I just got up too fast. I'm fine. Thank you. I'll talk to you later, Darryl. See you tomorrow, House."

Nolan nodded in acknowledgement. "Yes, you will. James, safe return to Princeton."

"Thank you," Wilson acknowledged, removing his hand from Hutton's arm. As he headed for the door he allowed his hand to fall on House's shoulder for a brief moment squeezed slightly before walking out of the office with Hutton following closely behind him, shutting the office door behind her.

"You could have warned me," House told the psychiatrist, scowling. "I don't like being caught off guard—you know that."

"I would have told you had I had advanced warning myself," Nolan assured him. "He just showed up here about twenty minutes before our appointment. He was very anxious about telling you the news of your dismissal. He knows how much your job means to you. I think it went well, although I can understand your discomfort."

House was silent, not responding to that. He wanted to be angry at Nolan but realized it wasn't his fault—nor was it Wilson's. Damn Cuddy! Why the hell was she doing this? Yes, she was angry at him, although he wasn't exactly certain why she was this time—perhaps it was simply accumulative. In the past she hadn't been vindictive in her anger—but she was now. It was said that 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned' but he hadn't scorned her—_she_ was the one who had rejected _him_, had pushed him away. One thing was certain—they were no longer involved in any way in each others' lives. Twenty plus years and this is where it had all led. He had grieved the loss of her affection, but he'd had Wilson to help him through that. Now she'd severed ties with him professionally. Would Wilson really be there for him during a lawsuit?

House felt no pangs of guilt over suing her and the hospital for a sizeable amount. He didn't even feel angry or vengeful—he simply felt sad and rejected once again. There was one good thing about this, however; Wilson had cared enough to come up personally to tell him and offered his support in bringing a lawsuit against them. Perhaps there was a hope for something real between them eventually. Then again, he didn't want to get his hopes up too high; usually they ended up getting crushed when he did that.

"What are you thinking?" Nolan asked him gently. House realized that he'd gone somewhere else for a few moments.

He shrugged, smirking apologetically. "About nothing in particular," the diagnostician admitted, sounding defeated even to his own ears. "My job was about all I had left. My chances of getting another one are slim to none."

"You don't know that for certain," his therapist told him. "I can't tell you what to do, but I think the idea of a lawsuit is a good one. You could start your own practice. Be your own boss, practice medicine your way—within reason, of course."

House couldn't help but smile ruefully at that, but the smile quickly faded.

"What if I don't win? What then?"

"One step at a time, Greg," Nolan reminded him. "That's all any of us can do when faced with this kind of adversity. Take one step at a time and do as much as you can do. Then you can take the next step. I don't think your future possibilities for employment are as dour as you've been led to believe."

"What do you mean?" the diagnostician demanded, frowning quizzically.

The psychiatrist shrugged. "Who was the one who told you that you were unemployable outside of PPTH?"

House didn't have to take much time to answer that question. "It was Cuddy. And she repeated it on a fairly frequent basis. But she's right. My history of expulsions in med school don't speak well of me, nor does my being fired from Johns Hopkins. I have a reputation for pissing off figures of authority. All of the complaints on my records, the lawsuits that have been filed against me…and then there's the fact that I'm an addict and as crazy as a loon. That's quite the CV I have to offer any future potential employers."

"You completed med school," Nolan pointed out, ticking points off on his fingers as he went along, "you gained a reputation for being a brilliant, innovative doctor who is able to diagnose what other doctors can't; you are sought out worldwide for your knowledge and expertise, you've written many highly acclaimed papers, you have specializations in two areas of medicine, your save rate is remarkably high for the kind of cases you receive and you're not as despised in medical circles as you like to believe you are. True, you are eccentric at times-."

"Eccentric?" House mocked.

"-and your forte is not in one on one interaction with your employees and patients," Nolan continued without skipping a beat. "You can be impulsive and abrasive. None of those challenges are insurmountable. Some would even say they are a normal pattern found among those of special genius."

"Please, my swollen head," House said sarcastically.

"Don't you think it's possible that at least some of the conflict you've encountered in your career, particularly in the past decade or so, could be attributed to the weaknesses and failings of those around you rather than in yourself?"

House thought about that. Was it possible? He'd been told most of his life that he was a smart ass, a jerk, a malcontent, a misanthrope. He'd been labeled as being uncooperative, despising authority, a loose cannon. Was it possible that there was an ulterior motive behind the disparaging remarks? Could it be that those who had made them were at least partially wrong? Cuddy had been the one who had pounded it in his head the most that he was unemployable anywhere but at PPTH where she had pitied him and hired him. Yet on other occasions she had stood up for him, especially when it meant keeping her hospital's 'biggest asset'. Was it possible that she wanted him to believe that no other hospital would hire him so he wouldn't get fed up with working where he was and look for better working conditions elsewhere? She certain had fought him more times than not when he needed a test or permission to have a procedure done, and though she had never disputed his value as a doctor she certainly hadn't shown him the respect she did other, less competent doctors.

It was becoming clearer to him now just how much his insecurities and rotten self-esteem had been used to manipulate him over the years. Certainly when he'd first begun working at PPTH he'd had difficulty finding work—but that was a long time ago. He had to admit that he was a different man now, that he had changed, despite him strongly asserted maxim that people don't change. He wondered just how difficult it would be for him to find work now that he was sober, receiving help, with more experience and knowledge under his belt, in an atmosphere where he didn't have everybody's preconceived notions and unwillingness to cut him a break working against him?

He was afraid to think this way, to harbor some hope of life being better, of there being new opportunities open for him. If he hoped, then he could be disappointed. Then again, not hoping hadn't done him a whole hell of a lot of good, either.

"It's possible," House mumbled to Nolan in acknowledgement. "It's more likely that I'm the asshole everybody thinks I am, though."

Nolan shook his head. "I disagree," he told him. After a few moments of silence, the therapist changed subjects. "I've been reviewing your progress and the meds we have you on. How has your mood been over the past few days?"

House smirked, "I haven't tried to off myself again, have I?"

"No," Nolan agreed with a nod and a small smile. "So I'll take your answer as meaning it has improved. How about sleep?"

Shrugging, House demurred, "I've never slept well. Maybe four hours a night which is good for me. I also catch naps during Insight group."

"Yes," Nolan said, frowning slightly, "so I've been told. You might want to try to stay awake and participate occasionally—you might actually gain some insight from it."

"I gain sleep from it," the diagnostician argued. "I think that benefits me more than drawing a representation of the emotional angst I experienced during my adolescence."

The psychiatrist didn't respond one way or the other to that.

"Dr. Travis has received the CT scan and Doppler ultrasound results on your leg," Nolan told him, handing one of the file folders on his desk to House. Inside was the written report of the results as well as films. House picked one of the films and held it up to the lights to view. There was visual proof of the deep vein thrombosis (DVT) House had suspected for a while now. He had _Phlegmasia cerulea dolens_, a condition where a sizeable blood clot had formed in the femoral vein of his right leg close to the groin that extends into the iliac vein in the abdomen. Only fifteen percent of the normal blood flow was making it past the obstruction, threatening yet another damaging effect on his already crippled leg. This clot had formed in spite of the anticoagulant drug Coumadin House took daily since his infarction to thin his blood and prevent clotting.

"Another clot," House said in disgust, tossing the file folder onto Nolan's desk. "Damnit!"

"Fortunately it has been discovered before another infarction can occur," Nolan reminded him. "Dr. Travis has made a referral to a vascular surgeon in Philadelphia."

The vascular surgeon would be the one to determine whether aggressive thrombolytic drug therapy will be enough to resolve the problem or whether surgery to remove the clot and insert an IVC (inferior vena cava) filter-to prevent smaller emboli that may break off from the larger clot from ending up in his lung causing a pulmonary embolism-was warranted.

"Which surgeon? How soon before I get in to see him?"

Nolan looked inside of another file and then answered, "Dr. Justin Clee. He works out of St. Luke's; he's a well-respected vascular surgeon with experience in microsurgery. I happen to know him—he's very talented. Your appointment with him is on Thursday morning at eleven thirty."

House had heard the name Clee mentioned by Chase once or twice but had never met him. He was glad he was getting in to see the specialist as quickly as he was; the pain coursing up into his pelvis and lower abdomen was getting worse by the day and delay in treatment could result in serious, if not deadly, injury should the aneurism burst or the embolism break up and the fragments end up in his lungs.

"Good," House said, nodding curtly in approval. "Anything more you want to go over with me?"

Nolan shook his head. "No. I was considering changing your Luvox over to Effexor but I think that should wait now until after you receive treatment for the aneurism. You might want to consider notifying James about your medical condition, since he is your medical proxy and has to sign on the dotted line for the time being. I can do it, but I figured you may wish to do it personally. If he had had more time this morning, the diagnosis and referral information could have been presented to him while he was here." The psychiatrist pulled open a drawer in his desk and pulled out a pass attached to a lanyard and handed it to the diagnostician. House accepted it; it was a phone pass. He hadn't earned one the usual way yet.

House sighed and nodded. It wasn't his obligation to contact Wilson himself concerning this but Nolan had been correct in believing he wanted to be the one to tell the oncologist. He was going to be a great deal of contact with Wilson this hospitalization; during his first hospitalization he'd only spoken to him once, briefly. He didn't know if this was a good thing. Every time he saw him the older doctor was reminded of all of the pain he'd endured this past year, and for years before that.

"I have something I want to discuss with you," House announced, leveling a penetrating gaze on the therapist. "I know you know Hutton is sick. Her symptoms presently point to a possible peptic ulcer or gastritis. Don't try to deny it. Tell me what you know because at the rate she is losing weight and strength she'll be at death's door within a month."

(~*~)

Wilson hadn't taken three steps away from Nolan's office before Hutton caught up to him and started a conversation. The oncologist didn't know how she was at her job, but he didn't like the woman; she was blunt and pushy. He didn't like the fact that House was revealing things about his relationship with him that he didn't know about. She had an access to his best friend's private thoughts and feelings, something that for the most part the younger doctor been denied access to for nearly two decades.

"It's good of you to offer to help House with his lawsuit if he doesn't reconsider his decision to go ahead with it," she said to him, matching his stride.

"He's my best friend, Dr. Hutton," Wilson told her coolly. "Of course I'm going to help him if I can."

"Are you certain that's the only reason, Doctor?" Hutton asked him. Wilson stopped short and so did she. They stared at each other, squaring off like two opponents about to do battle.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he demanded, feeling his temper rise. He was unconsciously clenching his fists. Hutton sighed, grabbed the oncologist by the arm and dragged him into the ladies room with her. He was relieved when he realized that there was no one else in there, and then glared at her for an explanation.

"I heard your conversation with House when he was in St. Luke's following his most recent suicide attempt," Hutton reminded him now that they were in private. "I know that you claim to be in love with him and hope to pursue a future intimate relationship. Are you certain you aren't motivated to help House because you hope that by doing so he will be willing to pursue a relationship with you following his discharge?"

"First of all," Wilson retorted, gesticulating with both of his hands as he spoke, "my motives and the details of my relationship with House are none of your business and secondly, you are coming dangerously close to violating HIPAA regulations talking to me about one of your patients."

I haven't told you a single thing that has been said and done concerning his treatment; what I've said is information that is already openly known by both of us," the psychiatrist told him firmly. "Your veiled threats and manipulations won't work on me."

"Are you suggesting that I shouldn't help House?" the oncologist demanded, frowning. He had no idea where this conversation was leading and, frankly, he didn't have time for it.

"No," Hutton answered quickly. "I just hope you understand that it's possible he might not choose to pursue a romantic relationship once he's released from Mayfield. I hope that should that happen your support won't be rescinded. That would be _very_ harmful to his recovery. If you _do_ love him but your help _is_ conditional, it might be best if you don't offer it at all—just in case."

"Has House told you that he doesn't want to be with me romantically?" Wilson asked, scowling suspiciously.

"Now, I would be in violation of HIPAA regulations if I answered your question, wouldn't I?" she answered and then sighed in frustration. "I'm just asking you to be careful. Don't mislead him, give him hope, if you're going to pull away and abandon him if things don't work out the way you want them to. It's not news to say that he can't handle that kind of disappointment."

Wilson glared at her, too angry to speak. How dare she suggest that he would do such a thing? She had nothing to base such an implication on. He would never do that to House. He'd only really abandoned his best friend once, after Amber had died, and even then he had come back. Was she suggesting that House felt like he'd been abandoned by him recently? Wilson knew he'd pushed House further away than the diagnostician appreciated because of Sam, but he hadn't outright abandoned him.

Not trusting himself to remain civil, the oncologist didn't dignify what she had said with a response. He turned on his heel and strode quickly away from her, hoping that she would have the sense not to try to pursue him. He was relieved when he glanced back and she was still standing in the same spot, watching him walk away with a look of concern on her face and shaking her head.

1 H+ inhibitors—Histamine inhibitors.


	18. Chapter 18 Part 2 Ch 6

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** Sorry this update took as long as it did—I've been doing a lot of medical research for this story lately so that's my excuse—that, and the fact that my husband's family had their family reunion this past weekend! **Special Note:** This is the edited version of this chapter. My sincerest thanks to **Visitkarte** for pointing out that a barium swallow can not be done when intestinal bleeding is present! As you read you'll see where this fits in.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Six: Monday, May 31, 2010; 10:41 A.M.**

The room was silent for a moment and then Nolan shook his head.

"Even if knew I couldn't tell you anything," he told the man with the electric blue eyes staring at him. "That would be privileged information. If you believe there is a problem, you need to bring that up with her when you see her next."

"So she told you there was a problem during a session with you?" House asked, scowling.

Nolan met his gaze but didn't answer. House saw what he interpreted as indecision in the other man's eyes.

"I'm curious," Nolan said thoughtfully. "What makes you think she may have a peptic ulcer or gastritis?"

Smirking, the diagnostician told him, "Interesting. You didn't deny that there's something wrong and you're interested in my observations which tells me that there is something wrong; I suspect you have an idea of what the problem is and it doesn't align with my theories. Good job at deflecting, by the way."

Nolan shifted slightly in his seat and smiled knowingly. "Why do you care if something is wrong with Dr. Hutton?"

House shook his head, stretching his legs out slowly and leaning back in his seat. "I don't," he lied, sounding indifferent, "but I'm bored to death so I decided I would try to diagnose Hutton as a diversion."

"So this is a mental exercise, then?" the psychiatrist asked, raising an eyebrow. "There's nothing else behind your curiosity?"

"Well obviously her health impacts me," was the reply. "If she has to take sick leave then I'll be stuck with seeing you every day; she's nicer to look at."

"Without a doubt," Nolan agreed with a nod.

"Look," House said, sighing irritably. "I don't need your confirmation to know that she's ill. I may be able to help—but that would be a useless venture if it's already known what's wrong. I'll figure it out without your help but if you know you can save me time. If she didn't tell you what's wrong with her, then you can speculate and your speculation isn't privileged information."

"Untrue," Nolan argued, shaking his head. "If my speculation is based on something she told me in confidence then that makes my speculation privileged as well."

House sighed, pulled his legs back in and stood up. He grabbed his cane.

"Fine, don't tell me and we'll cross our fingers and hope that what she has isn't progressing to something life threatening before I solve what the problem is," the diagnostician sniped sarcastically. "She'll be dead but at least her secret will be safe." He turned and limped towards the door.

"Wait," Nolan said as his patient reached for the door knob. House turned half-way around, hiding a smile of satisfaction and raising a quizzical eyebrow.

"If you happen to find yourself around the infirmary around two o'clock this afternoon, you'll be able to ask the source," the psychiatrist told him quietly.

Turning right around now, House cocked his head slightly and frowned. "What would she be doing at the infirmary…?" His voice trailed off and then realization replaced confusion in his expression. He nodded without another word, turned back towards the door and let himself out.

**Monday, May 31, 2010; 1:54 P.M.**

Traffic had been light coming from Philadelphia so Hutton arrived earlier at Mayfield than she would have liked. She kept asking herself why she was back there at all. Two appointments had needed to be rescheduled so that she could sneak away for this medical exam and a stack of patient files and other paperwork two feet high sat on her desk waiting to be taken care of (okay, maybe the stack was only eighteen inches high, but that wasn't the point). She couldn't stay at St. Luke's late that evening because her daughter had a choir practice at school and she didn't feel right about leaving David at home alone; he was ten years old and quite capable of blowing the house up when he got bored. In spite of her resentment, she knew that she couldn't put this off any longer. It was probably just an ulcer, as if an ulcer wasn't serious enough; she highly doubted that she was dying or anything. However she was in pain, felt miserable and couldn't eat.

She got out of her car and crossed the staff parking lot. It was a cold day for the end of May; a wind had picked up and it was apparent that a storm was blowing in if the dark clouds from the southeast were any indication. Hutton pulled her light jacket tightly around herself when she shivered; she felt so cold these days. The slightest drafts cut into her like a knife and her hands were always cold.

_It's because you have no fat layer left to keep you warm,_ she told herself grimly. She'd stepped on the scale again that morning and found that she had lost another three pounds since the Monday before; in total that was twenty-eight pounds. She had already lost a dress size and her clothes were getting noticeably loose. Linda had mentioned it again at lunch earlier that day when Clee pointed out that she hadn't eaten her fruit salad, one of the only things she was usually able to keep down anymore. Anderson had given her 'the look' but hadn't said anything more to her about it. It wasn't that Hutton didn't want to eat—she felt incredibly weak and could feel her body screaming for nourishment—she simply couldn't because of the pain; when she did suffer the discomfort and try to eat she would end up bringing it up a few minutes later—_involuntarily_.

She'd shoveled a couple of cubes of watermelon into her mouth to get Linda and Clee off of her back, but as soon as she had returned to her office she had ended up vomiting suddenly into her wastebasket. For the first time there had been bright red blood and what looked like a few coffee grounds as well.

She was an internist as well as a psychiatrist. She knew damned well that was _not _a good sign. She'd refused to allow herself to speculate, was afraid to, going on rounds instead.

Hutton slipped her ID card into the slot and heard the lock click as it released. She pulled on the door and it felt so much heavier than it had earlier that morning.

She quickly made her way to Mayfield's small infirmary, hoping not to see anyone she knew along the way. Her health was her business and she wanted to be the one to tell others about it if she so chose. She just about made it when she heard a familiar voice behind her. She turned around to face her patient and sighed silently.

"Funny seeing you again so soon," House said, smirking. His eyes were boring holes through her already and it only took the psychiatrist a moment to realize that House's presence there was no accident. There was no way he could have known about her appointment with Dr. Travis except….

"Darryl squealed," she responded irritably. "I can't believe he violated my privacy!"

"He only suggested that I should find myself around the infirmary at two o'clock," the diagnostic told her, defending Nolan. "I'm not blind. Actually, I'm insulted that you thought you could hide the fact that you were sick from me. He wouldn't tell me anything."

House walked up to stand next to her in the otherwise empty corridor. He looked down at her with a serious expression. "The fact that you're here could mean you're not certain what's wrong, but you're an internist, which means you've got your suspicions. The fact that you're being seen by Travis instead of someone at St. Luke's means that you don't want anyone you know to suspect that something is wrong with you. The question is why—because it's something that might embarrass you? Perhaps you don't want anyone to worry because you suspect it's something serious? Or is it something else?"

Hutton looked back up at him, trying not to betray her turmoil and worry to him. Part of her was angry at him for sticking his nose in where it didn't belong. Another part of her was impressed by his powers of observation and perception and the rest of her felt strangely pleased that he had shown enough interest in her well-being to question Nolan and confront her here. She had to look away from his gaze; it made her feel like he was trying to read her mind and could very well be able to do it.

"There was no intention to insult you," she assured him, forcing a thin smile. "I just didn't think it was anything important enough to mention. Besides, it's not any of your business. So tell me, with what did you bribe the staff to look the other way while you sneak around the hospital unattended?"

Grinning, House shook his head. "That was a lousy attempt at deflection. So, what are all of your symptoms and when did they start?"

"Uh, I have an appointment to see Dr. Travis," the psychiatrist replied, giving in to the urge to smile back, "not you."

"You're going to trust a quack like Travis with your life? Only those doctors who can't find work anywhere else work in infirmaries."

Hutton shook her head. "That doesn't mean that they're not any good," she argued even though she had thought the same thing on her drive over there. "There are a lot of reasons why a doctor might end up working in an infirmary. Now if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment I need to get to." She tried to walk around the diagnostician but he shifted over to continue to block her path.

"Weight loss, lack of appetite, pain when food hits your stomach, paleness, you tire easily," he said as if reading off of her medical file, his eyes watching her face for any tells, "occasional shortness of breath, lightheadedness, dizziness and obvious fatigue. What else?"

Hutton eyed him suspiciously for a moment, realizing that he wasn't going to let this go. He was bored, looking for mental stimulation and his expertise directed his energies towards his curiosity. His need to solve puzzles matched with his natural stubbornness and tenacity meant she wasn't going to win this argument and quite frankly she wasn't certain that she wanted to. The smug look on his face was both annoying and endearing. He must have been both a handful and a delight as a child.

"You can't treat me, you know," she reminded him. "Your license is under suspension."

"I can be a source of inspiration for Dr. Travis, then," House told her. "Consider this the first of my consulting cases we talked about."

Throwing her hands up in defeat and sighing, the psychiatrist replied, "Fine. If Dr. Travis doesn't mind you sitting in on our appointment then you can come with. Okay?"

He smiled like a little boy who had gotten his own way and nodded, stepping out of the way to allow her to pass and then following her into the infirmary reception room. A bored looking nurse sat behind the desk transcribing patient information into a computer. She removed her earphones and smiled slightly at Hutton before looking sideways quizzically at House.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Hutton," Nurse Abby greeted. "Dr. Travis is expecting you. Follow me, please." She rose from the desk and opened the gate to allow her into the inner areas of the infirmary. When House attempted to follow she glared at him.

"It's alright," Hutton told her with a nod. "He's with me."

Nurse Abby threw her an 'Are you certain?' look before allowing House through the gate as well. He stuck his tongue out at the nurse once the psychiatrist had turned her back to him. They were led to an exam room that was adjacent and connected to Travis' office.

"Have a seat," Nurse Abby told them, smiling at Hutton and then glaring at House (who glared right back). "Dr. Travis will be with you shortly." The nurse left, shutting the door behind her. Hutton took a seat but House stood over her, rubbing his hands together eagerly and smiling sly.

"Time to play Doctor!" he told her, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

"Not on your life," Hutton told him, amused, crossing her arms in front of her.

"Awww!" he whine childishly. "But why not? It could be fun."

"Why don't you just sit down and behave yourself?" she told him good-naturedly. "You're lucky I even allowed you to come in here with me. This is highly irregular."

"Speaking of which," House segued as he sat down in the chair next to her, "_are_ you?"

"What?" Hutton asked, genuinely confused for a moment before realizing what he was referring to. "Oh, you mean…? No. I'm not. Normal bowel movements. Can't this wait until Travis gets in here?"

"Nope," he replied. "Blood in the stool?"

"Some," she told him reluctantly. "The last two have been black tar. There are other symptoms."

House waited for her to tell him what they were; when she didn't, he prodded, "Are you going to tell me or are we going to play twenty questions?"

With a sigh, she lifted her pant legs to expose her calves.

Petechial hemorrhaging created a fine purple rash that ran up her legs. She unbuttoned her blouse (ignoring the diagnostician's wolf-like leering) leaving her silky pink bra on. Her chest and abdomen were covered with the same rash.

"I thought Thrombocytopenia," Hutton told him, "but it doesn't explain the lack of appetite, weight loss, gastric reflux, burning in the pit of my stomach, and the lightheadedness. So I considered that it might be another symptom of another disease, low platelet count due to hemorrhagic anemia caused by a peptic ulcer. There's another recent symptom—the lymph nodes under my arms and in my groin are sore and slightly swollen."

"Could be Hodgkin's Lymphoma," came a voice from behind Hutton. House looked up in surprise and she turned slightly to see who it was.

Dr. Travis entered the exam room.

"Uh oh," House said with an amused smirk. "Caught!"

Travis shook his head and sighed in irritation. "Dr. Hutton, most patients wait until _after_ the _first_ opinion to get the second."

Hutton looked at him incredulously. That was his response to walking in to find a psychiatrist partially unclothed and on display in front of one of her patients in his office? He behaved as if this sort of thing happened all the time.

"I'm sorry, Doctor," she apologized, unable to meet his gaze. "House took it upon himself to investigate certain symptoms I've been exhibiting without being asked. I had a moment of poor judgment."

"Don't apologize!" House told her, rolling his eyes. "You have every right to choose who you want to see your puppies—I mean, diagnose your illness—and you chose me."

"No, House—_you_ chose _me_," Hutton corrected him, blushing and frowning slightly. House met her gaze and she thought she saw in his eyes and face expressions of fondness, but she was also very embarrassed at the moment and not thinking exactly the most clearly so she could have been mistaken.

"Do you really think he can diagnose you better than I can?" her patient asked her, frowning indignantly.

"It's not a matter of better," she told him honestly, "You aren't licensed right now, so that means that you may be able to diagnose what's wrong with me but you can't treat me, whereas Dr. Travis legally can. Dr. Travis, I have confidence in you as a doctor and I'm interested in your judgment. At the same time, though unsolicited, Dr. House's opinion may also prove to be helpful. Would you mind terribly if he stayed for the examination if I assure you he will remain quiet and not interfere?"

"Well I don't know about him," House said, "but I don't like sharing my toys."

"Neither do I," Travis told her frowning. "This is highly irregular—but I am very much aware of Dr. House's reputation so this doesn't surprise me all that much. So long as he refrains from insulting me and offers his opinion only when I ask for it, he can remain." The general practitioner looked pointedly at the diagnostician. Hutton then turned her attention back to her patient, who wanted to make her his patient as well. How did she get herself into such a ridiculous situation?

Nolan was going to pay for encouraging House this way, she determined resolutely.

"I'm sorry to burst your bubble, Gentlemen," Hutton told them, "but I'm nobody's toy. This is a bad idea." She began to do up her blouse quickly. "I should never have listened to Darryl. I have a solution for this power struggle—I'm leaving now." She made to hop off the exam bench but as soon as her feet touched the floor her knees buckled under her weight and she collapsed to the floor. When she tried to get up, she found that her muscles—all of them, it seemed—were suddenly too weak to bear her weight.

"I can't get up," she said softly, feeling tears well up in her eyes even though she didn't feel anything near like crying. She felt humiliated. "I'm too weak."

House and Travis exchanged looks as they towered over her without making a move to help her up. The diagnostician suddenly lightly punched Travis in the shoulder.

"Tag!" House told Travis sardonically. "You're it!"

"This is not a game, House," she told him, growing angry as well as terrified at what was happening to her. Hutton felt tears roll down her cheeks but she wasn't sobbing. She felt like she was floating between realities somehow. Nothing seemed quite real to her.

House reached to a nearby tray and pulled a few facial tissues out of a box before awkwardly kneeling next to her on the floor, hissing from the pain in his thigh as he did.

"No," he told his therapist quietly, eyes sparkling with fascination, "it's not." He wiped tears off of her face with the tissues and then held them out before her where she could see them. They were stained with blood.

"Oh my God!" she gasped, her eyes widening.

"No," House returned in an attempt at sardonic wit and failing, "but I'm often mistaken for him."

She tried to move again but House put a hand on her shoulder to gently prevent her. He turned to tell Travis to call for an ambulance but the G.P. was already on it.

"Oh God!" Hutton gasped again. She had just lost control of her bladder. What the _hell_ was happening to her? House turned to look back at her.

"I told you—," he began to say but then saw what had happened and the look of utter shame the psychiatrist wore. She lifted watery eyes to look at him pleading.

**Monday, May 31, 2010; 4:55 P.M.**

House pushed open the door to the IC room at St. Luke's and peaked inside. Hutton lay with the head of her bed raised at a forty-five degree angle, with her arms resting limply at her sides and he eyes shut. She wore a nasal cannula feeding her oxygen-rich air as an IV line ran from a bag of saline hanging from a pole next to her bed down into a PICC line that had been inserted into her arm near her right wrist. Various lines led from leads placed strategically along her body to the monitor that displayed her vital signs. A pulse oximeter was clipped to her right index finger, keeping track of the oxygen saturation levels in her blood. The lighting in the room had been dimmed for her comfort. Sitting next to her bed was Nolan, watching her sleep in silence.

House had expected to see her kids, a friend or perhaps even a lover sitting where the senior psychiatrist was. After collapsing on the infirmary floor, shedding tears of blood, and losing control over her bladder Hutton had proceeded to vomit up a large amount of blood twice before passing out. She'd been tachycardic—her heart rate was at one hundred and forty-three beats per minute when the paramedic had arrived to take her to St Luke's and her breathing had been irregular but not enough so to warrant intubating her. House, much to his frustration, had had to remain behind at Mayfield and had hurried to Nolan's office to protest. The attending psychiatrist had just found out about Hutton's collapse and had been on his way to meet the ambulance at the hospital; apparently Hutton had made him her medical proxy after her husband had died. Nolan had left without giving House the pass he wanted to go to St. Luke's as well. House had been plotting his escape in the privacy of his room when an orderly burst in to inform him that Nolan had approved a pass after all. A nurse had driven him to St. Luke's.

Apparently, Hutton had regained consciousness in the Emergency Room and had told Nolan that she wanted House there and had been so adamant about it that the senior psychiatrist had agreed to phone in the authorization.

"Hey," House said softly, catching Nolan's attention while trying not to awaken her.

Nolan gestured for him to come into the room and House complied, quietly shutting the door behind him. He walked up to the end of her bed. He couldn't get over how frail Hutton looked lying on the hospital bed with tubes and wires coming out of her. Her raven hair was splayed across the white pillow and her skin was so pale that it was difficult to see the difference between it and the linens. She was a very pretty woman, even as sick as she was right then.

The diagnostician looked at the monitor and noted that her heart rate was slightly lower than before—stable at one hundred and five beats per minute and her breathing was much more rhythmic and even; her O₂ saturation was ninety-one; it would be much more reassuring if they could get it up over ninety-five. She was running a fever of one hundred and one point four—not dangerous yet but it merited close monitoring.

"Update me," House commanded softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"They're testing her blood and urine for just about everything," Nolan responded; he sounded tired. "They've already given her one unit of whole blood and once the lab results are back they'll decide whether to give her more. Her doctor… Anderson, he's a pediatrician but don't let that fool you, he's a brilliant doctor with experience in internal medicine…he's scheduled her for an endoscopy and ultrasound for five-forty-five this afternoon. After that they're going to use an iodine contrast for further X-rays. They took standard head, chest and abdominal X-rays in the E.R. and I'm awaiting news of the results. They started her on omeprazole as a precautionary measure. "

House listened carefully and then grabbed Hutton's chart out of the pocket at the foot of her bed and perused it. Among the tests on her blood there was a CBC (complete blood count), hematocrit levels, gastrin levels and drug and toxin screens. Satisfied for the time being, House returned the chart to its pocket and then pulled up a chair that normally sat near the door. He hooked his cane on the back of the chair and lowered himself down onto it, wincing slightly as his leg complained.

"Thanks for the pass," House acknowledged with a nod. "What changed your mind?"

"Liv wanted you to be here," Nolan explained. "She's scared—but she won't admit to that. She trusts you to figure out what's wrong with her. She spoke briefly with Dr. Anderson and he agreed to allow you to unofficially consult."

"Smart man," House commented but surprisingly there was no arrogance in his voice. Instead it held concern that he didn't bother trying to hide. Somehow, in the short time he had known the woman, Hutton had managed somehow to affect him and make him care for her. Perhaps it was because she believed him right away without questioning his word until evidence arose to put his honesty in question. She didn't automatically assume he was a bad seed, a demon in the form of a man, guilty until proven innocent. She listened when he talked and didn't assume that she knew what he was thinking and feeling but instead encouraged him to help her to understand. She was strong, confident, compassionate and intelligent. She was honest about her weaknesses and admitted her mistakes. He felt protective of her and was determined to do whatever it took to diagnose her illness and get her the treatment she needed.

House hoped that the Dr. Anderson was a competent physician who would be open to his counsel. He didn't need some idiotic by-the-book Nazi getting in the way of what was best for Hutton. Wishing that his license was still active, House sighed heavily.

"Where's her family?"

"Her kids were up here about an hour ago with Liv's best friend, who'll be watching over them while she's in hospital. She took them home for the evening," Nolan answered. "They're smart kids—they know that she's receiving the best of care here, but they're still very frightened."

"Hutton told me that their father died a few years ago," House commented, his eyes still on the sleeping woman. "If they were old enough to remember that they probably have it in their heads that she could die too. It's not an unreasonable fear."

"Why were you so adamant getting a pass so you could come here with her?" the senior psychiatrist asked him.

"I wanted to make certain she received the proper care," House answered, meeting Nolan's eyes.

"Why?" Nolan persisted, sitting forward in his seat.

House was silent for a while, trying to decide whether or not to answer the question. He'd been asking himself the same question and had fought the urge to run away from his self-analysis. He wasn't the type to show concern and compassion; he usually just walked away and told himself that he was better off not getting involved. Not giving a damn had been his way of avoiding fear, worry, and loss; of course, the consequence of his apparent disinterest had been the reputation of being a hard-hearted bastard who didn't possess a real human emotion anywhere in his being. He'd pretended over the years that he liked that reputation though a select few knew differently: Stacy, Cuddy, Wilson, Nolan and now, Hutton. He was tired of isolating himself and hiding from the fact that he _did_ know what empathy was, that he _was_ capable of caring for a person other than himself.

Eventually he answered, "For some unexplainable reason, she believes in me. She's not just words but actions as well. There haven't been too many people in my life who've believed in me, held out hope for me without trying to change who I really am. If she dies, I lose that and go back to being a project instead of a person. My motives are purely selfish."

"So you're motivated simply out of self-interest?" Nolan clarified, looking at House knowingly. "It had nothing to do with the fact that you've made a connection with someone and care about her well-being simply because she's touched you somehow?"

House knew where the psychiatrist was going with this; Nolan had always been about the connections, the interactions, the relationships.

"In spite of my past experiences and gut instinct, I can't dislike her. Fuck, she'll probably turn around a month from now and show that she is as hypocritical and untrustworthy as everybody else in my life has been," the diagnostician told him, avoiding looking at him. "Right now, I need to delude myself with the belief that somebody could actually care about me just for me and be trusted not to dump me like yesterday's garbage when she loses interest or something more appealing comes along." House sighed and forced himself to meet Nolan's unwavering gaze. "I need something—or someone—to hold onto because I can't survive on my own anymore. I'm tired of being alone; I need to believe she'll stand by me like she promised. The least I can do is act in good faith and be there for her in return."

A smile warmed Nolan's face and he simply nodded. "Reaching out, trusting…it's risky. One has to be discerning to know who can be trusted and who can't be. I can tell you this, Greg—she's the genuine article."

_I hope so,_ House thought to himself and silently sighed.

Both men looked in Hutton's direction when she stirred beneath the covers. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked around with a look of confusion on her face. When he eyes came to rest on Nolan she alerted, a look of concern marring her features.

"M-my kids—" she murmured.

"Linda is with them," Nolan told her soothingly; House couldn't help but notice the trust that existed between the two therapists. "She took them to the cafeteria. They're fine."

Hutton nodded, swallowing loudly. She licked her lips with a dry tongue. "Is House—? "

"Bored stiff watching you sleep?" the diagnostician spoke up dryly. "Yes. Thanks, by the way. Your head-dive into the floor has provided me with a vacation from the nuthouse."

Her eyes moved slowly in his direction and came to rest on him. A weak smile graced her lips and her fingers on both hands began to toy with the blanket draped over her.

"If you're bored," she replied, her voice rasping, "you could keep yourself occupied by figuring out what's wrong with me."

"I don't have hospital privileges at St. Luke's," House quipped, "or a license for that matter. So I can't take money for a diagnosis but I've got a way you can pay me for my services." He wiggled his eyebrows slyly.

"Sorry," she croaked, "I don't deal in that particular currency."

House smirked in amusement. She didn't chastise him for his rogue sense of humor and she could throw it back at him like a pro.

"So," she asked quietly, "what do you suspect?"

"Too early to say," he answered, shaking his head slightly. "I need to see the lab and scan results."

Hutton looked at him skeptically. "You must have initial suspicions? Peptic ulcer? Anemia?"

"The bloody vomit, heartburn, nausea, and burning pain in the stomach look like it," House acknowledged, "but they don't explain the neurological symptoms, the petechiae, bleeding from your tear ducts or the incontinence. There are other possibilities. I'll know better after the results come back. Do you know this Dr. Anderson?"

She nodded. "He's a good friend and my personal physician."

"A pediatrition?" House mocked, "Really? Perhaps you haven't noticed the fact that you're an adult, not a child."

"You're only as old as you feel," she quipped amusedly.

"Then I must be fucking one hundred years old," House sighed. He noticed that her eyes were getting heavy again.

Nolan chuckled, not commenting.

Nodding, Hutton yawned and sighed. She appeared to be trying to stay awake but was losing the battle. "That will change," she assured him confidently. "By the way, I expect you here tomorrow for your therapy session. Just because I'm laid up doesn't mean you get off easy."

"Talk to the boss," House told her, gesturing with his head to Nolan as if he was completely unaware of their conversation.

"I will," she assured him, yawning again.

"It can be arranged," Nolan said mildly. He squeezed her small hand reassuringly. "But only if you're up to it."

"I am," she whispered before her eyes closed and she fell asleep again.


	19. Chapter 19 Part 2 Ch 7

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** It took me forever to research for this chapter and I'm certain that I'm still going to make mistakes with the medicine. Please forgive any errors I may make!

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Seven: May 31, 2010; 8:48 P.M.**

When Dr. Gage Anderson arrived in Hutton's IC room he found not only his patient asleep but also House. Feeling a firm hand on his shoulder shaking him the diagnostician opened his eyes and blinked a few times in his attempt to focus on the face of the cad who dared to rouse him from his slumber…or something like that. He looked up at the face of an African-American male in his late thirties, early forties dressed like a Wilson clone—from the ugly tie around his neck and lab coat to the expensive French loafers on his feet. He carried a Macbook under one arm.

House shivered and sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. "Who the hell are you?" House grumbled.

"I'm the guy you've been having paged all evening," the other man said with a hint of irritation in his voice. "I'm Dr. Anderson and you have to be—"

"—House," the older doctor finished for him. Anderson had extended his hand to him and he stared at it almost suspiciously for a couple of long moments before shaking it briefly. The Pediatrician had a firm shake and met House's eyes confidently. "You have the lab reports and the results from the scans and endoscopy?" he asked, cutting to the chase.

"Right here," Anderson told him quietly, not wanting to disturb Hutton's sleep. "Why don't we go to the lounge to review the data?"

House had expected the other doctor's reception of him to be less than friendly considering he was treading on another doctor's territory and had no license or hospital privileges at St. Luke's. However Hutton's primary seemed unruffled by House's presence and insistence to involve himself in Hutton's diagnosis. He nodded in agreement, grabbed his cane and rose to his feet. Anderson was already out the door so he had to hustle to catch up. His long legs aided him in catching and keeping up with the able-bodied doctor. House liked the fact that Anderson hadn't held up to allow House to catch up or slowed his pace to make it easier for him and his disability.

The pediatrician led him to a small visitors' lounge just down the corridor and around the corner from Hutton's room. He sat down on one end of a two-seat sofa and set up his laptop on the coffee table in front of him. House took a seat at the other end and rested his cane on the table top. The younger doctor brought up the desired files and displayed one set of results on the screen.

"The labs came up with some interesting abnormalities," Anderson told him. "Blood work—the CBC showed significantly lower than normal RBC count, not unexpected due to the amount of blood she's been vomiting up. We've been topping up her tank—she's received two units of A positive today and will receive at least one more tomorrow. Leukocytes are still in the normal range so no indication of infection there but the platelet count is in the toilet. Again, not a huge surprise with hemorrhagic anemia. Explains the excessive GI bleeding and the petechial rash."

House rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation, "I have eyes and I do know how to read," he grumbled, glaring at the younger doctor. A Chem-20 screen had also been run. While the alkaline phosphatase (ALP) and the alanine aminotransferase (ALT) levels were slightly elevated they were still in the safe range, indicating that Hutton's liver, at least, was still functioning properly. House knew that things could change quickly, however. Her lactate dehydrogenase (LDH) was elevated but that wasn't unusual in the presence of anemia and other indicators showed that her kidneys were still functioning adequately as well. Her blood calcium level was moderately high and correspondingly blood phosphorus was lower than normal. Her parathyroid levels were elevated which made sense with the increase calcium. The hypercalcemia, or higher than normal blood calcium levels, could contribute to her symptoms of nausea, appetite loss, abdominal pain and peptic ulcer disease. The blood test for Helicobacter pylori bacteria, organisms often associated with peptic ulcers, came back negative; the urea breath and stool antigen tests for the bacteria were negative as well. If the stomach lining biopsy taken indicated no H. pylori there, then her stomach problems were not attributable to a bacterial infection, not that he had thought so in the first place.

Taking the liberty, House scrolled down the page to view further test results. An elevation in pepsin levels suggested probable peptic ulcers. So far things were looking relatively mundane, which was good news for Hutton but bad news for him and the boredom he had been experiencing.

"Note the presence of gastrin—elevated three times the normal," House pointed out to the pediatrician, a bit of the teacher in him showing itself. "As well as the elevated blood calcium and below normal blood phosphorus levels."

"Yes, I noted that. We should check her PTH1 levels. If hyperparathyroidism2 is the cause then we might be looking at an adenoma3 or hyperplasia4." Anderson told him, nodding with enthusiasm. House assumed it was because of the science and not some deep-seated desire to see Hutton suffer. "So we'll move on to the Upper GI panels. Because of the bleeding we couldn't do the barium swallow but the sodium shows up pretty well." He brought up the images on his laptop. House noted what were most likely ulcerations lining the lower stomach and carrying on into the duodenum. Peptic ulcer disease it was, then, but House wasn't satisfied. The presence of high gastrin levels suggested the existence of a least one gastrinoma, perhaps more.

Gastrin is a hormone normally found in the blood and is responsible for the secretion of gastric acid in the stomach to break down the food a person eats. Cells called G cells in the lining of the stomach release gastrin when a person eats and the presence of this hormone in the blood triggers the stomach to release gastric acid. When enough gastric acid has been released, the gastrin levels in the blood decrease. Gastrin also influences other organs like the pancreas, liver and intestines. Normal levels trigger the pancreas to produce digestive enzymes, the liver to produce bile and the intestines to stimulate peristalsis which helps move the food and nutrients through the GI track. A dramatic increase in gastrin levels in the blood indicate abnormally high production which is most frequently caused by the presence of gastrinomas.

Gastrinomas are not the same thing as peptic ulcers. Ulcers are the result of the erosion of the protective lining of the stomach due to excess stomach acidity. Gastrinomas are rare gastrin-secreting tumors of the endocrine system and most frequently found in the pancreas and duodenum, but occasionally they _can_ be found ectopically in areas of the body like the body of the stomach, the jejunum, peripancreatic lymph nodes, splenic hilum, liver and heart to name a few. Usually gastrinomas are benign but in people with certain disorders they can be malignant and spread easily through the body.

"Did the endoscopy show the presence of gastrinomas?" House asked impatiently, frowning.

"I just got the results from the gastroenterologist who performed the procedure so I'll be seeing this for the first time with you," Anderson told him as he brought up the file with the video playback. Both doctors watched intently as the tiny video camera on the end of the endoscope moved down Hutton's esophagus towards her stomach. Beside irritation and some minor inflammation attributable to the frequency of the vomiting and the reflux of stomach acids the esophagus looked clean. The stomach, however, was another story.

"Bleeding ulcers," Anderson commented softly, stating the obvious. House chose to ignore him. There were at least three ulcers at different stages of severity but the largest one was the worst and looked dangerously close to actually perforating the stomach wall. There wasn't, however, any indication of a gastrinoma. Anderson fast forwarded through the part with the biopsy procedure and the video continued with a view of the duodenum, the first part of the intestines after the stomach.

"Shit," House spat softly. There were six tumors immediately visible.

"Didn't they biopsy these?" House demanded after the video playback ended without any indication of such a procedure being done.

Bringing up the 'written' notes made by the gastroenterologist, both doctors scanned them quickly.

"What kind of goddamned idiot finds a shitload of tumors and doesn't biopsy while he's there?" the diagnostician growled angrily at Anderson. The younger doctor looked just as furious.

"A goddamned idiot who's going to get a permanent imprint of my shoe on his ass," Anderson answered and then curse. "I'll push to get Olivia in for a biopsy as soon as possible. Excuse me for a few minutes." He got up to leave.

"Get that MRI moved up and schedule an SRS, too. She needs to have that done tonight. She also needs to be screened for MEN-1 and have scans taken of her parathyroid and pituitary glands," House commanded before the pediatrician left. A smirk pulled at the corner of the younger doctor's mouth but he didn't comment about the fact that the unlicensed diagnostician was ordering him around as if he were one of the man's employees. He hurried out.

House went back to the fluoroscope films looking again for the slightest smudge, spot or shadow to indicate that the gastrinomas had spread from Hutton's intestine to the pancreas, lymph nodes or liver. He thought he saw something slight with the pancreas but he couldn't be certain with the films he had. An SRS and MRI would give him a clearer picture, thus the immediacy of the need to have them done. Anderson had left Hutton's file open, so House brought it up on the screen and read through past and present histories taken to look for any indication of a family history of ulcers and gastrinomas, parathyroid and pituitary disorders, and nephrolithiasis and ureterolithiasis (refers to the presence of calculi in the kidneys and ureter. Once these calculi bunch or crystallize they form kidney stones). There wasn't much information available on Hutton's family except for the fact that her grandfather had died of some unspecified blood disorder and her mother had experienced a non-bleeding peptic ulcer caught early in its development and easily treated by medication.

Hutton, however, had shown elevated levels in blood calcium in tests taken as part of her yearly physical a few months before. They had been borderline normal so no further investigation had been made. House probably would have checked the PTH after seeing that but not all doctors were as vigilant when a reading fell within the assigned normal range; they would probably have been just as lazy as this Dr. Fluegas listed on the physical report. _Fluegas…what the hell kind of name was that?_ he thought with amusement.

Things were adding up in House's mind and the pieces were beginning to fall together, but he didn't like that shape this puzzle was taking on. He hoped he was wrong and refused to settle on a specific diagnosis until he had more concrete evidence.

Sighing, House sat back in the sofa and leaned his head back to stare up at the ceiling, rubbing his eyes with both hands. He was exhausted but also encouraged. While this was still shaping up to be more mundane than he preferred it was still giving him a chance to exercise his brain and prove to himself if no one else that he was still capable of doing his job, even if Cuddy and the PPTH board didn't believe he was.

He wondered what was happening back in Princeton. Cuddy likely would have allowed Foreman to take over Diagnostics again. He wondered how long it would be before he epically failed again and the board decided to close the department, especially after Taub and Thirteen would undoubtedly quit once more and move on.

House wasn't concerned about what Chase would do when that happened; he would never admit it to another soul but he believed Chase was a good doctor and surgeon. If he had been asked who he thought should replace him as department, House would have chosen the Australian over Foreman. Chase appeared to be the laziest and dullest member of the team but House knew better; he behaved that way because he could get away with it, but the man had specializations in two areas—he was an intensivist and a surgeon and had actually completed his fellowship under House before he'd fired the younger man a few years before. Chase saw things that the other team members didn't, was shrewd and was skeptical enough not to accept everything he saw or heard at face value; House never would have hired him if he truly felt he was incompetent. It wasn't just because he had a famous father and had almost become a Catholic priest, although those things definitely made him more interesting than most of the applicants House had interviewed for the Fellowship he'd given to him.

He wondered if Cuddy laid awake at night beside her man-child after an unsatisfactory round of sex and thought about everything fun and interesting in her life that she'd given up to get herself a respectable, responsible sycophant that her bastard daughter could call 'Daddy'. What kind of celebration did she and Lucas throw when the board voted in favor of firing him? How long had she waited before she called the guy who scrapes the names of office doors to remove his name from the office that had been his for over a decade?

Was Cuddy so confident in her base appraisal of House that she wasn't concerned about a lawsuit being filed against her and the hospital? Did she think he was so desperate and destroyed that he wouldn't dream of standing up for himself and his rights?

How much had Foreman molested Ball-y in the diagnostician's absence? Who did Wilson sit with at lunch now that both Sam and he were no longer around? Who did the oncologist talk to or spend time with after work and on the weekends now that he was all alone in that huge loft apartment? Was he serious when he said that he would stand behind House in the suit against his former employers?

Did Wilson really mean it when he said that he was in love with him?—and what if he had? Did that make up for the all of the women he'd thrown House over for, the way he'd sent him mixed messages all year and then kicked him out on his ass when the diagnostician had needed him most? What did it mean against the fact that instead of being by House's side and supporting him through his depression Wilson instead sent him far away to be locked up with strangers as somebody else's problem? Had he changed enough that House could trust him not to do any or all of these things again? Should they become a couple and things got to uncomfortable or mundane for him would he cheat on House the way he had his wives? The main question was: Could Wilson be trusted again?

Could _any_ of the people he knew back in Princeton be trusted again, or would things be exactly the way they were when House had tried to kill himself? As far as he knew there had been no great religious revival or enlightenment and hell hadn't frozen over (not that he believed there was such a place as hell); he didn't think than anything less than a cataclysmic event could change the attitudes and beliefs of his former employees and 'colleagues' about him. If there was nobody he could trust to return to and no job waiting there for him once he was discharged, what reason would there be for him to bother returning?

Perhaps this was the end of the road for him in Princeton—and maybe—just maybe—the beginning of a new one somewhere else.

Had Hutton been telling him the truth when she told him repetitively that there were people in the world that could and would accept him for who he really was, and not for somebody they wanted him to become? Was there another hospital that would hire him? Could he start his own practice if he won the lawsuit? Dare he allow himself—for even just a moment—to believe that there was a place in the world for him after all? It was frightening for him to even contemplate being hopeful, to believe that change could actually be good.

Could he move on with life without James Wilson in it?

He felt a deep ache in his chest at the thought. Despite it all, he was still in love with the younger man and he probably always would be—but did that mean it was a good thing in terms of his sanity and safety? Were the pros of being with him worth the cons of what that relationship would be?

House sighed in frustration. He had nothing but questions without answers; his life was a puzzle with pieces missing and the picture on the box lid to go by.

"Are you alright, Dr. House?"

The diagnostician hadn't heard the pediatrician return and jumped a little at the question. He sat up and forward in his seat, blinking at him

"Fine," he answered brusquely, picking his cane up from off of the table and rising to his feet. "How soon does she get in?"

"I had to threaten to squeal on the radiologist to his wife about the extended lunch breaks he's been taking with one of his ultrasound techs," Anderson said, smiling thinly, "to get her bumped up. She's good to go for an MRI at ten-thirty tonight. I couldn't get her in for the SRS until first thing tomorrow and the doctor I want to do the biopsy is gone for the night. I don't trust the same assh—uh , individual who screwed up the last endocopy. I have someone in with her drawing blood for the PTH count as I speak."

"Find me an endoscope and do the biopsy tonight," House told him quietly. "I've done my share in the past."

Shaking his head with a sad smile Anderson reminded him, "You don't have your license currently, Dr. House, so you can't perform procedures on patients at this time."

House made a 'tsk' sound and rolled his eyes, "A technicality. I'll do the procedure and you can stand at the door and watch for anyone coming."

"I could lose _my_ license doing that," Anderson told him, shaking his head. "I'm not ready for forced retirement yet."

"I don't currently have my license but that doesn't mean I don't know what the hell I'm doing," House told him angrily. "Jesus! I'm not some fucking intern fresh out of medical school! You'll be right there with me. Or _you_ do it, damn it! But don't let that woman suffer needlessly because of a bunch of fucking rules! Otherwise, I might as well go back to the asylum and you can sit on your thumbs and watch her die."

The pediatrician was silent, watching House's face as he silently debated in his head. House watched him carefully, hoping to glean from his features what he was going to decide.

"I haven't done an endoscopy in ages," Anderson said softly. He sighed and shook his head. "I can't believe I'm agreeing to this but I promised Olivia to give you the benefit of the doubt. I'll find an available room. When I find one I'll get back to you." He began to shut down his laptop. House smirked in victory. He was curious about something.

"Considering the fact that you know that I've been in the nuthouse for trying to off myself and I had my license suspended—again," House said to him, his smirk fading away, "why the hell did you agree to work with me?—aside from Hutton's request. We both know she would have been alright about it if you'd refused."

Closing the Macbook and picking it up, the pediatrician regarded the diagnostician for a moment before answering, "I've heard the rumors, the stories of the antics you've pulled in your career, the challenges you've faced both professionally and personally, but quite frankly, I don't care much about the past—no one can change it so why focus on it? Olivia is an excellent judge of character. If she trusts you with her life, then the least I can do is listen to what you have to say and work with you. I know my limitations. I'm one hell of a pediatrician, but I'm not a diagnostician. My pride isn't so great that I'm willing to risk Olivia's life to protect it."

Anderson walked past House on his way out of the lounge, saying over his shoulder, "Let's go wake her up to tell her that we're going to be sticking another tube down her gullet and stuffing her into claustrophobia-inducing MRI ."

House's eyes followed after the pediatrician, widening slightly with astonishment; he bit back a snarky response and hurried to catch up with him.

**(~*~)**

Hutton was awaked by the need to vomit. Nolan, the only one in the room, quickly grabbed the basin for her she took it from him and emptied out a frightening amount of blood, stomach acid and bile. In fact, Nolan was about to ring the nurse when she finished heaving. He took the basin from her and set it aside; the woman fell back against her nest of pillows in exhaustion and weakness. She didn't even bother to reach for a tissue from the box on the bedside table to wipe the blood off of her mouth. The senior psychiatrist did it for her without a word being spoken.

"Thanks," she said after a moment, speaking barely above a whisper. "What are you doing still here? Go home to your beautiful wife."

"I spoke with Betty a few minutes ago," he told her mildly, his voice quiet as well. "She understands and wants you to know she's praying for you."

Nodding in acknowledgement Hutton responded, "That's so sweet. Thank her for me, okay?" The female psychiatrist wasn't religious; she hadn't completely ruled out the possibility that there may be some higher intelligence—God, if you will—that designed the universe but if so, it was a distant parent who probably paid no attention to the requests of one member of this inconsequential species _Homo sapiens sapiens_. Betty Nolan believed in a God that did care; it was the thought that counted.

"I will," he told her with a nod.

"Did House return to Mayfield for the night?" she asked next after looking around the room and realizing he wasn't sitting in a corner sleeping.

"Not yet," Nolan answered, looking a little curious, too. "He was here when I left to call Betty but was gone by the time I returned."

"Maybe he went for a walk around the hospital to think," she said with a shrug. "I know that look, Darryl so relax; he's got a puzzle to solve. He's not going to make his great escape. I don't believe he would anyway. He knows he needs help. He tried for a year to show his friends and colleagues that he was changing, getting better, but nobody bothered to notice. He was doing it for them as much as he was for himself. I think he realizes that he has to do this just for him now."

"I hope you're right," Nolan commented, shifting in his seat to get more comfortable.

"I am," Hutton told him confidently with a smirk and a nod. "Actually, there's something I'd like to talk to you about while House isn't here. It concerns his treatment."

"Go on."

"I get to talk to him both during therapy sessions and outside of them during our exercise every morning," she told him, "He's obviously much more relaxed when we are outside and often tells me things that if we were inside in my office he probably wouldn't. Darryl, I think being an inpatient at Mayfield is actually counter-productive to his therapy and recovery."

A frown cast a shadow over Nolan's features but he remained silent, waiting for the younger psychiatrist to explain.

"When House first came in he definitely needed an intervention and hospitalization to prevent him from continuing to harm himself," she explained, "I think that much we agree on. However, from talking with him, I believe he's past that critical stage and much more stable now. I've received reports that he's participating in group and showing progress. There are three major factors at play with him that I think make remaining hospitalized a detriment rather than a benefit for him.

"First of all, he's a fiercely independent person. He doesn't do well having no say over his own life situation and the decisions about where he goes and what he does. He becomes resentful which either comes out as aggression and anger or withdrawal and depression. Now that he's more stable, I feel he would begin to feel more empowered to retrieve some control over his life again. His frustration and sense of powerlessness is only feeding his depression and low self-esteem.

"Secondly," she continued after taking a few breaths, "He's bored out of his mind. He already knows pretty much every skill that is being taught in his groups—in fact, I think he knows more than Dr. Molina does sometimes. He's so brilliant that what is available to him in the hospital isn't nearly enough to keep his mind stimulated and active. You've commented several times in his file that House tends to become more agitated, anxious and self-deprecating when he's bored. I've also noticed that the intensity of his pain is directly proportional to how bored he is. I presented him with the opportunity of consulting with willing doctors in Philly via the internet but not even that is going to keep him satisfied for long. Without being the one to make the final decisions over a case he's only going to become extremely aggravated when the cooperating doctors choose not to take his ideas and recommendations and it's guaranteed to happen at some point. You know the old saying 'Idle hands do the Devil's Handiwork'? With House it's an idle mind that's dangerous.

"Finally," she said with a sigh, "he'll never learn out to cope and develop healthy relationships by reading hand outs in a discussion group. To understand what healthy relationships are he has to witness and experience them himself. I don't think he's had a single healthy relationship in his _entire life_. It was the fact that he felt like he was all alone and nobody cared about him that spurred on the suicidal behavior, so the sooner he can be immersed into situations where he not only witnesses healthy people in healthy relationships but actually interacts and forms healthy relationships of his own. He can't do that cooped up at Mayfield. I think he needs to be discharged as soon as possible and entered into the Outpatient program."

"The outpatient program is five weeks, every Monday through Friday, nine a.m. to four p.m.," Nolan reminded her quickly, obviously not as convinced as Hutton that this was a good idea. "His home is in Princeton; that's at least an hour and a half commute each way in rush hour traffic. While he's at home he has no one to make certain that he's continuing to take his medication and monitor his mood and behavior. I've discovered that relying on his best friend to do these things is an iffy proposition. House has no job which is also a complicating factor. What does he do once the Outpatient program is finished?"

Hutton stared down at the blanket covering the lower half of her body, gathering her thoughts. She'd been thinking this subject over for a while now and had already made some moves to facilitate a successful discharge and recovery outside of the walls of Mayfield if she got what she wanted for House. Of course, she would never force her plan on him if he didn't want to participate, but she'd made certain that she had concrete answers to Nolan's questions should House choose to do as she hoped. However, Nolan's approval and cooperation were absolutely necessary.

For the next few minutes Hutton described her plan to Nolan in detail, and despite a few initial objections and arguments, he listened intently. When she was done she relaxed, allowing the mattress beneath her do all of the work supporting her body. She was simply too tired to do it herself. Watching the senior psychiatrist's face as her contemplated what she had told him, Hutton waited anxiously for his final decision. As she waited a nurse came into her room to check on her, add another unit of blood to her IV, and empty the catheter bag hanging beneath her bed before leaving.

"Well?" Hutton asked impatiently.

"It could work," he agreed hesitantly, "but you'd be taking on a huge responsibility and right now you don't need the extra stress and work."

"Well, the next Outpatient round doesn't start for another week," she said, shrugging. "I doubt that he's going to want to leave my case until he's diagnosed me. Linda is staying at the house with the kids while I'm in here and has already offered to stick around for a couple of weeks after I'm home to help the kids babysit me—that is, if I do get to go home again—and for now the kids are on summer vacation so I won't have to shoulder the entire responsibility all by myself. Darryl, I _want_ to do this. House isn't an infant that needs my constant attention. Believe me, I've thought this through. I can't do it without your approval, that's why I'm broaching you with my idea before I even suggest anything to House."

"He can be a stubborn, obnoxious, cantankerous man," Nolan warned her. "A real handful."

"Well I'm a stubborn, driven and _sometimes_ bitchy woman," Hutton responded. "I think I can—." She stopped speaking when the door to her room opened and the limping cantankerous man entered with Gage Anderson. Both she and Nolan looked at them expectantly, waiting for one of them to speak.

Anderson spoke first, "I've got some good news and some bad news, Liv."

"Ooo, pick the bad news, pick the bad news!" House encouraged mockingly, bouncing with faux enthusiasm and rubbing his hands together. "The good news is boring!"

Hutton cast him an eye roll and amused smirk before looking back to Anderson. "Just give it all to me, Gage and quick, before House has a conniption or lays an egg, whichever happens first."

She ignored the dirty look the diagnostician gave her.

"Well, we have a few ideas of what may be happening to you," the pediatrician told his friend. "But to be certain we have to do some more tests yet tonight before House can go back to Mayfield. Before we take you to have them done, you and Nolan have to swear never to breathe a word of this to anyone."

"He's overreacting," House told her, blasé about it. "He's afraid of losing his license. I mean, who actually needs to have a medical license to perform another endoscopy and biopsy? _I'm_ not going to." He grinned diabolically, eagerly tapping his fingertips together in front of. "Hold onto your seat, Hutton. I get to have a little fun!"

She half-smiled in trepidation, her eyes widening like tea saucers.

**(~*~)**


	20. Chapter 20 Part 2 Ch 8

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:**

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Eight: Monday, May 31, 2010; 9:38 P.M.**

Anderson found a free room in Radiology then acted as a lookout while House threw on a pair of scrubs and helped Hutton onto a stretcher. It had taken a great deal of time and convincing to get Nolan to go along with their little escapade and not report them for what they were about to do. House really didn't see what the big deal was all about; the only reason he didn't have his license to practice medicine was because it was suspended due to his 'illness', not revoked because of incompetence or malpractice. Endoscopy had its possible risks and complications but in general it was a safe and effective procedure. Besides, if the gastroenterologist, who possessed an active license, had done his job correctly the first time, they wouldn't have to be doing this at all.

Hutton had lost enough weight to look nearly skeletal and was nothing for House to gather up in his arms and transfer over to the stretcher.

"My hero," the psychiatrist teased with a weak smile, batting her eyelashes, as House set her down and draped a thin blanket over her, even going so far as to tuck the blanket under her feet. He rolled his eyes and pretended not to be amused but when his back was turned to her a smirk broke out on his face. He made certain that everything she was hooked to that she had to remain hooked to came with them. The two men wheeled her out of her room, and Anderson logged her with the nursing unit as being taken for a procedure. They wheeled her quickly but not too quickly down the quiet corridor toward the elevators.

"So why did you pick a pediatrician as your doctor of record, anyway?" House asked his therapist quietly along the way. "If you tell me that you're under eighteen I'll refer you to a plastic surgeon I know _tout de suite_."

"You flatterer, you," she responded sardonically.

"You look great for your age, Hutton," House explained, uncertain why he felt the need to do so, "but you're not a child."

"Gage is a great doctor all-round," she replied, smiling warmly up at Anderson, who returned the smile wordlessly. House knew flirtation when he saw it; it irritated him. He mentally filed that bit of information away for the time being, not wanting to deal with it just then.

They reached their destination without a questioning eye or being stopped, but it had required Anderson to distract the receptionist in the Radiology and Diagnostic Imaging department but acting irate about important 'films' on a five-year-old patient of his and demanding she check everywhere for them, taking her away from her desk. House couldn't help but smile as he quickly pushed the stretcher to their room. He placed a placard outside the door, warning others not to enter because a procedure was underway. While they waited for Anderson to return House began to prep Hutton for the procedure—nurse's work, as he put it.

"Undress and lie on your left side," he told her. Hutton looked up at him, scowling. There was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

"I don't have to be naked for an Upper GI Endo, House," she told him. "Nice try, though."

"Couldn't hurt," he agreed, shrugging.

Hutton chuckled a little. "So what's your opinion of Gage?"

"Meh," House answered, avoiding her gaze. "He's alright, I guess. A little too eager for a man his age. So tell me, just how _eager _does he get when it's just the two of you?"

"Not nearly enough," she quipped, smirking, apparently quite amused by his curiosity. He could feel rather than see her eyes appraising him, looking for any physical reactions to that. When he heard a sudden intake of breath and a slight moan he turned his attention back to her quickly. She had curled up slightly, pulling her knees towards her chest and holding her abdomen with her right arm. Her face was twisted with pain and a sheen of sweat appeared on her forehead.

"How bad, one to ten?" the diagnostician inquired seriously. For a few moments she didn't answer but instead moaned quietly.

"It was a good eight," she said weakly. "I feel nauseous."

"If you puke on me you can do your own endoscopy," House grumbled as he looked around for something she could vomit into. "What do I look like, a nurse?"

"Sorry," Hutton said, beginning to pant. The pain was drowning out the signals of nausea to her brain. "Forget it. Find Gage. I want to get this over and done with and get back to my room."

House didn't have to do so, however, because Anderson snuck into the room almost immediately after she said that. He saw the look of pain on Hutton's face and frowned deeply.

"We'll get this done quickly," the pediatrician told her, brushing her arm gently. Hutton nodded but said nothing. She didn't even look up at him.

The psychiatrist wanted to avoid opiates; I.V. conscious sedation (IVCS) using a combination of a narcotic (like fentanyl) and a benzodiazepine (like diazepam), was out; they would her under heavier sedation with propofol, a short-acting anesthetic that had a rapid onset of action and short recovery time. The length of sedation could be controlled by the I.V. introduction of more than one bolus of propofol as needed. It meant Anderson would have to closely monitor her breathing for serious depression and her heart beat for arrhythmias while House performed the endoscopy.

Hutton was quickly prepped for the procedure. A guard was placed in her mouth. Anderson looked to House who gave him a curt nod. He then looked at the woman and smiled warmly.

"See you on the flip side," he told her with a wink. She tried to smile around the mouth guard. Anderson injected the propofol into her PICC line and in a few seconds her eyes fluttered closed. Once she was out and he was certain her vitals were strong he looked over to House and nodded.

The entire procedure took forty minutes; House biopsied several of the gastrinomas present in her jejunum and duodenum. Within an hour Hutton was back in her room. She was awake when she got there but didn't look like she was going to remain that way for long.

Before she succumbed to her exhaustion and the residual propofol she reminded House, "We have a session tomorrow. Don't forget."

House smirked. "Go to sleep already."

She smiled and complied.

Nolan was ready to return House to Mayfield before heading home and Anderson wanted to have one of St. Luke's oncologists look at the biopsy samples but House had other ideas. There was only one oncologist House trusted, the one he called on every time he needed an oncology consult. Nolan agreed to wait a few minutes longer while Anderson made appropriate arrangements with the samples while House used the phone in Anderson's office to make the call to Princeton.

After two rings the phone was picked up. "Hello?" came a sleepy voice.

"Wilson, I need you to look at some biopsy samples," the diagnostician launched in immediately, not bothering with a greeting. "I'm sending them to you by overnight courier."

"House?" Wilson asked after taking a moment to wake up a little. "Is that you?"

"Who else would be calling you long-distance at eleven-thirty at night with tissue samples for you to look at?" House responded.

"Good point," Wilson muttered and then yawned. "Are you calling from Mayfield and what are you talking about biopsy samples?"

"I'm not at Mayfield. I'm at St. Luke's," the older man answered, rolling his eyes in exasperation. Wilson could be incredibly thick when he first woke up. "Look, I—."

"Are you alright?" came the oncologist's panicky question, cutting him off. "Y-you—you d-didn't try to hurt yourself again, did you?"

Sighing, House assured him, "If I had, would I be in any shape to be calling you myself? That's so yesterday—I've got better things to do with my time. I'm _fine_. I've been asked to consult on a case. I performed an upper GI endoscopy on a fortyish female exhibiting symptoms of a peptic ulcer and gastrointestinal bleeding complicated by neurological symptoms as well. The biopsy samples have been taken from gastrinomas found in her duodenum and jejunum. I don't trust the oncologist's here."

"You performed an endoscopy?" Wilson repeated, the sound of his voice becoming high-pitched on the last syllable. "House, your license has been suspended, remember? Do you even have practicing rights in Pennsylvania? What are you doing, trying to get yourself arrested and make certain that you never get your license back? Why aren't you sleeping in your bed at Mayfield, safe and sound?—Oh my god! You escaped! House, go back before Nolan has the police out looking for you, please—!"

House had been holding the phone away from his ear for the last couple of sentences, sighing in disgust. He knew the oncologist would have a conniption but even this was a little excessive. Taking a deep breath, he put the phone back to his ear.

"Wilson, shut up and listen to me!" the diagnostician shouted angrily. When was the younger man ever going to give him the benefit of the doubt and not immediately assume the worst about him? House was tired and he wanted to get some sleep before dawn. The power in his voice silenced the voice on the other end of the line.

"Dr. Hutton collapsed at Mayfield this afternoon," House continued in a calmer manner. "She was taken to St. Luke's and requested that I consult on her diagnosis with her personal doctor, a pediatrician named Anderson."

"A pediatrician?"

"They're friends," House explained and shrugged even though his best friend couldn't see it. "He's making the final decisions and performing most of the procedures. I performed the endoscopy because Anderson isn't experienced with it but he was in the room and nobody else knows, so relax. There were no apparent gastric gastrinomas but her duodenum was full of them. I need to know if they're malignant. The samples have been sent to Plainsboro and they should be there by the time you get in to work tomorrow morning. Nolan is here with me and I'm heading back to Mayfield right away but I'm returning to St. Luke's tomorrow morning. Contact me through Dr. Gage Anderson. Got that?"

"Yeah, Gage Anderson. Got it." Wilson assured him, shifting into doctor-mode. "I'm assuming you ran a CBC and Chem-20. Anything interesting come up there?"

"Nothing unexpected with the CBC," the diagnostician answered, "except her thrombocytes are hovering around twelve-thousand. PTH and blood calcium are elevated."

"It could be a pituitary tumor," the oncologist informed him.

"Yeah," House admitted with another sigh. "She's scheduled for an MRI at ten-thirty. Anderson will contact me if there's evidence of pituitary or parathyroid adenomas."

"ZES is rare," Wilson told him evenly. "The tumors could be benign."

"Yeah," House acknowledged somberly. He didn't add that for Hutton's and her kids' sakes he hoped they were. "Get a hold of me as soon as you've had a chance to look at the samples."

"Yeah," the younger man agreed, "sure thing." He paused a heartbeat and then asked gently, "How are you doing—_really_?"

Smiling sadly, House thought of lying but decided not to; he didn't want to deceive Wilson anymore. He chose his words carefully, however. "Better. It was…good to see you today." It had been bittersweet; House had been trying to avoid thinking about what he was going to do concerning his relationship with him once he was discharged. The oncologist had looked so good and all House had wanted to do was grab him and kiss him when he saw him earlier in the day. Yet, he still didn't know if he could trust Wilson enough to make a relationship with him work.

"You?" House asked.

"Good," was the unenthusiastic answer. "Better if you were here." The oncologist was quiet for a moment during which House closed his eyes, missing him more than he ever had before. "Actually," Wilson added, "I'm preparing my CV and putting out feelers for opportunities outside of Princeton-Plainsboro."

A sudden rush of adrenalin shot through House's veins and filled his heart with fear. How _far _outside of Princeton-Plainsboro?—to another hospital in the area? In the state? Or was he planning on leaving New Jersey for parts unknown? His mind immediately went back to the last time Wilson said he was leaving PPTH. The oncologist had run away after Amber Volakis's death and had refused to even talk to House until the death of his father brought Wilson and him back together.

Swallowing hard, House demanded in bewilderment, "Why the hell would you do that? You redesigned and resurrected that oncology department and put it on the map!"

"Yeah," Wilson agreed and the diagnostician could picture him rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm not all that interested in working for the current hospital administration anymore."

Cursing softly and shaking his head House scoffed, "Tell me you're not leaving because I was fired. Don't be stupid! I cooked my own goose—don't screw up your career because of me."

"Who says I'm screwing up my career?" Wilson demanded, sounding annoyed. "Getting out of here may be the best move I can make. What Cuddy and the Board did to you was outrageous and now she's gunning for me for supporting you. Once the lawsuit is filed my position here may be terminated as well."

"Cuddy wouldn't do that," House guaranteed. "You're too valuable to that hospital."

"So were _you_," Wilson argued softly. He sighed. "It's not just because of you, House. I have no idea who that woman is who's occupying that office these days but it's not the Dr. Lisa Cuddy who hired me and with whom I was friends. This new woman is cold, calculating and ruthless. Since I defended you she's persuaded the finance committee to cut funding to the oncology department by twenty percent. I was struggling to keep things afloat with what we were already receiving. I'm going to have to fire several damned good doctors and nurses because of this which means I'll have to cut programs which will seriously affect patients for the worse. I tried to reason with her and she threatened to call security to remove me from her office! It's not just me, though.

"Yesterday she fired Nurse Brenda for standing up for one of her nurses who was nearly raped by a patient; said patient just happened to be a substantial donor to the hospital. He even admitted to touching her inappropriately but that made no difference! You won't believe what Brenda said before she marched out of the hospital."

House, who had been listening in amazement, shook his head and asked, "What did she say?"

"She stood in the middle of the lobby and shouted loudly enough for everyone to hear that Cuddy was protecting a potential rapist to make certain he continues to contribute to her hospital and she didn't want to work for someone who would do that. Then she declared that _you_ dodged the bullet as far as Cuddy was concerned and hoped that when you sue her and the hospital for wrongful dismissal and win, you'll leave a little left over for _her_ lawsuit. Then she said that you were an ass but a brilliant ass and that firing you was going to be the thing that bites Cuddy in the ass and destroys her."

"Shit!" House exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting up in astonishment. "She _must_ have been furious!" He began to chuckle and Wilson followed suit.

"Right after that I returned to my department to do rounds and heard that news had already reached the nurses there and they were talking about staging a walkout in protest," Wilson told him after he'd stopped chuckling. "I really don't want to be within a block of Cuddy should that happen."

House shook his head. It was amazing what was happening there and he secretly wished he could be there to watch the Dean of Medicine self-destruct. Cuddy was literally signing her own doom and while House still cared about the Lisa Cuddy he used to know, this version recently freed from the pod didn't stir any feelings of concern or regret inside him. He wished he knew what the hell was going on with her and wondered if paradise at home was turning into hell on earth. Regardless, she had made her choices and she would have to face the consequences, good and bad. He wasn't about to waste another second caring about her.

"Where all have you 'put out feelers'?" House asked quietly, anxiously.

"A few places here in Jersey," Wilson answered, his voice also softening, "New York, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts. Of course, I'm not planning on going anywhere without you. If you're afraid I'm going to abandon you again, don't be."

House desperately wanted to believe him, to put the past betrayals out of his mind and trust his best friend. He wasn't certain that he could.

"I gotta go," House told him and cleared his throat. "Nolan's waiting for me. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"House?"

"Wilson?" the diagnostician repeated sarcastically, using the same inflection, but it fell flat.

There was a pause. "I love you."

"Yeah," the older man acknowledged, shifting uncomfortably. He then whispered, "Me, too. Goodnight, Wilson." He hung up before Wilson had a chance to say anything more. A lump was forming in his throat; House swallowed it down and took a few deep breaths before finding Nolan and heading back to Mayfield.

**(~*~)**

Wilson pressed the end button on the cordless phone and sat up from where he'd fallen asleep on the sofa watching TV. He rubbed his face with both hands and then surveyed the damage. Five empty beer bottles stood (without coasters) beside a bag of potato chips with half of its contents spilled out onto the coffee table. The made-for-TV movie he'd been half watching was long over and an info-mercial for some kind of women's skin care product had replaced it.

The last thing he'd expected was to hear from House again so soon, and certainly not for the reason he had. House had sounded…tired yet enthused. He sounded like his old self again, and that had excited the oncologist until he realized that his best friend had got there without him. House had always needed Wilson to be his anchor and his help and Wilson had always needed to be needed by the older man because helping him acted as _his_ anchor. Yet here House was improving without him, and for some insane reason, it frightened Wilson.

What if House didn't need him anymore? What if House drew away from him the healthier he got? Wilson had no idea what he would do without House in his life. He'd always taken for granted that the older man would be there; now he wasn't as certain.

He shook his head and rose to his feet a little unsteadily. Regaining his balance he grabbed the empty bottles from the table and carried them into the kitchen. He put them into the recycling bin and for a moment was surprised by the number of liquor bottles that had collected in there since he'd found House in a pool of his own blood and had been terrified that he'd lost his friend for good; the bin was nearly full. Wilson knew that he had been drinking a little heavier than normal, but he hadn't realized just how much more. Not that he really cared enough to change his habits, but it was interesting.

The truth was, Wilson didn't feel like himself anymore. Without House and Sam he was all alone and it felt like he was simply existing rather than living. He didn't regret Sam's loss but House's…that he regretted so deeply that he could barely stand to be in his own company sometimes…actually, most of the time. He was lonely; he couldn't get over just how much had changed in his life since House had returned from Mayfield following his first hospitalization. Sometimes he wished he could just turn back the clock to those first few months after his best friend had moved in with him. They had been good times, just the two of them. House had been improving, looking and acting healthier than he had since before the infarction. He'd actually started opening up to Wilson after so many years of pleading with the diagnostician to talk. They had been growing so close, closer than they ever had before and then Wilson had panicked and ruined the best period of his life he'd experienced—better than with his ex-wives, even better than life had been with Amber.

Wilson leaned back against the kitchen counter and looked over the island at the large, open space he'd purchased for House and him. He remembered the crushed look House had cast him for just the briefest of moments after he'd told him to move out.

He sighed sadly and went to the fridge, pulling out the last bottle from the six-pack he'd brought home with him earlier that evening. He twisted the bottle cap off and chucked it into the sink before lifting the bottle to his mouth and taking a long pull off of it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand; he turned off the TV and the lights and made his way to his bedroom, accidentally bumping his arm into the doorjamb. He looked at the king-size bed from the doorway. He almost got lost in it all by himself. He couldn't wait until House came home and he could share his bed with him, make love to him, hold him in the darkness and just allow the chaos of the world disappear leaving just the two of them wrapped in each other's arms, like they should have been all along-if he hadn't been such a chicken-shit and hidden in denial of exactly who he was and what he really wanted.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed he began to remove his shoes and socks and then undressed and pulled on a t-shirt and pajama pants to sleep in. Pulling back the light duvet Wilson climbed into his bed and then turned off the lamp on his bed table. In the dark he lay on his side of the bed and looked at the empty half beside him. While he didn't miss Sam herself, he missed having a warm body to curl up with before falling asleep. The bed was too large for just him alone. He sighed and then scooted over towards the middle. grabbing the pillow from the other side and hugging it to himself; he imagined that it was House he was holding. Someday it would be. They had come too far for them to not be together now that they both were aware of the other's feelings.

He went to sleep thinking about what all he had to do tomorrow, including calling the lawyer concerning House's lawsuit and finishing his CV before sending it off, and of House's fathomless blue eyes.

**(~*~)**

Both men were quiet on the drive back to Mayfield. House stared out the side window at the cars they passed. He was so deep in thought to even notice. Of course, most of what he was thinking about concerned Hutton's condition, what he expected to find on the MRI and hear back from Wilson concerning the tissue samples. If there was an adenoma on her parathyroid glands and/or her pituitary gland, be it cancerous or not, she would require surgery to have the tumor(s) removed. If they were cancer, then Hutton would enter another battle for her life. The same went for the gastrinomas they had found in the first part of her small intestine. Whether or not they were cancerous they would also require surgical elimination. Cancer would mean chemo and radiation treatment and a careful watch for the spread of similar tumors to her surrounding organs and glands. He hoped that they weren't malignant.

Thoughts about his conversation with Wilson before Nolan and he had left St. Luke's also preoccupied him. Whenever House thought about his best friend his heart ached. Sometimes it was a good ache, but recently it usually was a bad one. Wilson sounded like he was committed to a relationship with House, but was he really?

Perhaps he thought he was, but House wondered what would actually happen if he were to move back into the loft following his discharge. Would things be alright, even good at first, until the reality of their relationship struck home and scared Wilson shitless again? Would he remain certain of his love for the diagnostician when someone other than the two of them found out that they were involved in a gay relationship? It was bound to happen, eventually. In fact, House would insist on it becoming known very soon after they went from platonic to sexual. He had no intention of becoming Wilson's dirty little secret and living a charade at work and in public day after day. He loved Wilson, and was proud of it and wanted everyone to know. What if the younger man didn't feel the same way? What if he was still obsessed about the opinions of others and his appearance to the public at large? What if he was fine with a sexual relationship with House but didn't want anyone else to know—not because he was ashamed not of being with a man but with being with _House_. How long would it be before Wilson decided he couldn't handle the scrutiny and went out hunting for another vagina to hide behind?Would he kick House out of the loft again in favor of another woman? Would he run away again, only making certain this time that House never found out where he'd gone?

There was no way House would be able to come back from a betrayal and heartbreak of that magnitude. He knew that he would be the one to run away first, but not far…just far enough to end his life without being found and rescued again. If that were to occur, he wouldn't piss around with overdosing or cutting his veins open again. He'd buy a Beretta and blow his fucking head off. He had no doubt that he would.

Knowing that, and knowing Wilson's track record when it came to romantic commitment and need to look good and respectable around others, the diagnostician wondered if returning to Wilson, and Princeton in general, wouldn't simply be a form of delayed suicide. It would be better to never begin a relationship with the oncologist than to be dumped by him after one had been established.

Yet, House couldn't imagine ever loving someone else the way he loved Wilson. Could he live the rest of his life after letting his Soulmate get away? Or was there the possibility that there was a life outside of the one he'd been living for so long and a chance that he could fall in love again, and find that love to be different, perhaps, but just as fulfilling? A couple of weeks ago he didn't think so. Now, he wasn't as certain. He had convinced himself that he would never work as a doctor again, but working on Hutton's diagnosis had led him to hope that perhaps there was a chance he'd find another job outside of Cuddy's 'generosity', or, if he won the lawsuit, perhaps he could open his own practice and obtain hospital privileges somewhere other than PPTH.

He had expected Anderson to know his name and reputation and refuse to work with him, especially now that his license was under suspension, but the opposite had been true. The pediatrician had been very receptive to House's input in spite of knowing who he was and had even trusted him enough to agree to the endoscopy. They had gotten along quite well, actually, which was surprising because House usually found it difficult to work with other doctors unless he was the one in charge. He'd felt like he belonged there, that he was appreciated, and he hadn't felt like that in a very long time.

For the first time, House seriously believed he could leave Princeton behind and build a life for himself elsewhere, in a place where he could leave the weaknesses and mistakes of his past behind him and not have them brought up and rubbed in face constantly. How could he move on in life if he was constantly being reminded of his past?

So he had a difficult decision to make and he would need to make it soon, because time stood still for no one, especially not Gregory House. Should he return to Princeton where he was familiar with everything but had no job and take a chance with Wilson (hoping that nothing went wrong), or move somewhere else and avoiding the risk of being crushed by Wilson's eventual rejection (but never knowing if it _would_ have worked out between them either), and facing the terrifying unknown?

House sighed heavily, attracting Nolan's attention.

"House?"

"Yeah, Nolan?" the diagnostician responded, failing to look at him.

"What are you thinking about?" the psychiatrist asked him mildly, glancing sideways at him from time to time. House didn't want to get into a therapy session with him now but also knew from past experience that trying to avoid his questions would only make him more dogged in getting an answer.

"About how good a blow job would feel right about now," he retorted sarcastically. "I don't suppose you'd bend the rules just this once and let me call someone—?"

"No," Nolan responded quickly, smirking sarcastically. "If I let you then I'd have to allow _every_ patient to do that. Scheduling and security would be a headache. Besides, the staff already resents the special treatment you've been receiving lately."

"Tell me about it," House muttered bitterly.

"What _else_ were you thinking about?"

Yup, House had been right. Deflection simply didn't work with this shrink—damnit!

"That I have to take a piss," House told him, looking at him now. "I happen to know that pissing _is_ allowed at Mayfield."

Nolan didn't acknowledge his answer, still waiting for the real one. House sighed again and stared straight out the windshield.

"I don't know what to do when you let me go again," he told the psychiatrist tiredly. "I have no idea what direction my life should or will take. There are really two main alternatives and both of them have their pros and cons."

Nodding, Nolan pulled the car up to the gate protecting passage onto and out of Mayfield property. He stuck his ID card into a little slot on a pillar next to the gate. Instantly the gate opened and alerted staff inside that he was there. They drove through the gate and House watched in the reflection on the windshield the gate smoothly close again behind them. Nolan brought the car around to the same door Hutton and he used when they went outside for their exercise. He parked the car and waited for a staffer to come out to escort House.

"Sometimes, when a choice must be made and both options look pretty even in terms of their desirability," the therapist said, "it comes down to one thing."

House raised a curious eyebrow. "And that is?"

Nolan smirked, "Listening to your gut."

"That's _scientific_," the diagnostician scoffed, shaking his head.

"Sometimes the scientific is best put aside in favor of the instinctual," was the response. "I'm not talking about an emotional decision; I'm talking about trusting your innate sense and following what it's telling you. I often wonder if we as a species haven't rejected the instincts that helped up get to this point in our evolution in the first place. We all have them. Some people call it a sixth sense or a hunch. Others call it intuition. I call it your _gut_. What is your _gut _telling you to do? Surely at some point in your career you've proceeded on a hunch rather than empirical data alone. If you don't know what your gut is telling you then you haven't been paying close enough attention. Take the time to be silent and listen for it. It's there underneath all of the noise. But do me a favor."

A staffer emerged at the door of the building, waiting for House. The diagnostician opened the car door.

"What's that?"

"Once you hear what your gut has to say, tell either Hutton or me about it before you take action," Nolan answered. "Some people don't speak 'gut' well enough to understand what it's trying to say. I'd hate to see you act on a message where the true meaning was lost in translation."

House stared at the psychiatrist in dismay for a moment or two before climbing out of the car. Before he slammed the door shut, he said to the driver, "And they call _me_ crazy. You need help Nolan."

Nolan chuckled. "We all do sometimes. Goodnight, Greg."

House shut the door and then headed for the waiting staffer as Nolan turned his car around and drove away.


	21. Chapter 21 Part 2 Ch 9

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **Just a note of thanks to those of you who are still with me and for your reviews!

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Nine: Tuesday, June 1, 2010; 6:12 A.M.**

Usually he hated to be awakened for any reason but House didn't bitch and complain when one of the diurnal shift nurses woke him with news of a call from Dr. Anderson at St. Luke's. The Mayfield staff had been made aware of the fact that House might be receiving such calls and was permitted to take them. A few of the resentful staffers grumbled and complained about it but knew better than take out their frustration on House; Nolan had made it clear in the last staff meeting that the diagnostician was a particularly complicated case and would be treated differently from the rest of the patients but only where it was necessary. There was to be no action taken by anyone on staff to 'even the score' in anyway. The unspoken penalty for violating this order was understood by all; if they liked their jobs, they would do as they were told.

House threw on a robe and slippers and then limped behind the nurse as she led him to the nursing unit. A phone receiver was passed to him through the small window in the safety glass barrier. He chose to ignore the dirty looks directed at him. He hated this place and waited impatiently for the day of his release.

"House," he said into the phone curtly. "What's up?" He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

"MRI shows a large gastrinoma on her pancreas," Anderson told him in response, cutting to the chase. "No sign of any more on any of the other usual suspects. Also, she definitely has a Pituitary adenoma. I'm waiting for word back from the Endocrinologist concerning a surgery time. I'll probably know more when the morning shift begins. I've also left a message for the chief gastroenterologist about the surgical repair of the worst of her ulcers and the ablation of the GI gastrinomas. Is Dr. Wilson going to take a look at those samples we sent him?"

"Yes," House answered, "first thing when he gets in this morning. He'll be calling with his determination as soon as he's made it." The diagnostician wondered if Anderson had slept at all.

"We're talking Zollinger-Ellison, aren't we?" Anderson asked the diagnostician.

House sighed silently, "It looks like it. If the genetic screen for MEN-1 comes back positive we'll have the absolute nuts but I think treating for ZES is a safe bet."

"Could you repeat what you just said in English, Doctor?" the pediatrician requested, sounding puzzled.

"The absolute nuts," House said again as if it should be blatantly obvious to anyone with half a brain what that meant. "Texas Hold'em?"

"'Texas Hold'em'?" Anderson echoed questioningly. "I don't understand. What is Texas Hold'em and what does it have to do with Liv's diagnosis?"

House rolled his eyes in amazement. "Poker?" he asked the younger doctor. "The _card game_? You _do_ know what poker is, _don't_ you?"

A chuckling could be heard from the other end of the connection. "I'm screwing with your mind, House. I know all about the absolute nuts. For a so-called genius you're a little gullible, aren't you?"

"Fuck you," House spat back, but it was obvious that he wasn't actually angry by the amused smirk on his face and tone of voice. "I challenge you to a heads up cash game when this case is over. I'll enjoy kicking your black ass and taking your money."

"You talk big," Anderson retorted with a snort. "But I suspect it's all hot air. You're on. I'll enjoy spending your money!"

"Only if you pick my pocket," House retorted, smirking. He glanced up to see the charge nurse on the other side of the glass pointing emphatically at her watch. House looked up at the clock on the wall and then told her, "It's almost twenty after six. Jeez, get a new watch."

The nurse scowled at him, placing her hands on her hips indignantly. "Time to end the call, Greg," she told him humorlessly. House had the urge to let her know what his middle finger thought about that but wisely refrained from doing so.

"Anything else?" House said into the phone. "_Boss _is having a fit because I'm tying up the phone."

"That's the important info," Anderson told him, "I can fill you in on anything else when you get here. Any idea when that will be?"

"We'll take off as soon as _Brunhilde_ here dusts off her _broom_," House answered, glaring at the charge nurse. Her face turned a deep shade of beet. The diagnostician crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue at her. "I'll be there for nine. Later."

"Yup," Anderson chuckled before hanging up. House shoved the receiver through the window at the nurse; he winked and smiled impudently at her before returning to his room. She looked like she was going to rupture a blood vessel in her brain. He knew that he was pushing his luck and his harassment of the nurses was going to end up biting him in the ass, but he just couldn't help himself—it was _so_ much fun! He had to do _something_ to keep himself from wigging out with boredom. He hated dictators, be they ugly charge nurses or suggestively dressed hospital deans.

The finding of a gastrinoma on Hutton's pancreas wasn't that surprising, particularly with ZES but it wasn't good news. The adenoma was even worse. If the tumors in her duodenum turned out to be cancer, she might not survive for very long; if it metastasized to her liver it was unlikely she'd still be alive in five years…if both the pancreas and liver were involved, surviving a year would be optimistic.

He cursed softly under his breath as he returned to his room and stripped down for a shower. She was a good therapist, a hundred times better than Nolan, and it would be a royal pain in the ass if he had to find himself a new shrink. His concern had nothing to do with the fact that he liked her, because he didn't—not at all. She wasn't different from the other people in his life. She wasn't non-judgmental, compassionate, and lacking in pity. She didn't laugh at his jokes, the kind that normally sailed over the heads of his fellows, Cuddy and sometimes even Wilson. She didn't promise to stick by him through everything and understand him nearly as much as Wilson did. Most importantly, she was hideous as hell and smelled like rotting fish left out in the hot summer sun. Why would he be concerned for someone like that? He threw on a bathrobe, grabbed his towel and shampoo and headed for the showers.

After his shower he dressed quickly in a white button-down shirt and a pair of jeans, packed for him by Chase before being shipped there. It looked better than the hospital grays that screamed 'mental patient' did for walking around a hospital and not being mistaken as an escapee from the psych ward. He stood in front of the mirror in his room and ran his fingers through his graying chestnut hair; an entire year had passed since his first hospitalization and it had only grown out an inch or inch and a half since then. Wilson had mentioned once that House looked better with his hair a little longer and a couple of days growth of beard on his face.

_Wilson. Fuck_, House thought as he shook his head and tried to drive thoughts of him out of his head. He couldn't focus on him and stir up the churning thoughts and questions regarding him; in session, sure—but outside of session thinking about the younger man only made being institutionalized that much harder to handle.

He checked the clock on the wall. It was six-fifty. Breakfast, such as it was, didn't start until eight, but he knew there was no point in trying to sleep anymore; he was too wide awake. With a sigh, he left his room, ignoring his shadow, and returned to the nursing station.

'Brunhilde' approached the window, rolling her eyes at him and sighing as if she was being greatly inconvenienced by him. "Yes, Greg?"

"I'm bored," he told her, frowning. When _wasn't_ he bored while at Mayfield? The program he was in was for five weeks; this was only week two. At least the first time he'd had Alvie to distract and annoy him. This time he had no one. Why did he always end up alone?

"I want the piano key," House demanded, holding out his hand and making a 'gimme' motion with his fingers.

"It's too early in the morning," the charge nurse told him, turning to walk away from the glass. House scowled at her. With his cane he rapped on the glass to get her attention again.

"You can't hear the piano from the patient rooms," the diagnostician insisted. "I won't be disturbing anyone."

"You'll be disturbing _me_," she told him, speaking down her nose at him. "I don't believe in _special _treatment. The answer is _no_." She turned and walked away.

House found himself getting angry. He was loud and belligerent but rarely did he actually lose it with someone; this was going to be one of those times if that bitch nurse didn't change her attitude in the next minute. He already felt stressed and panicky that morning. He began to pound on the glass with his cane with a force that threatened to crack the safety glass. She turned back to him quickly, her gaping mouth making her look just like a big-mouthed bass.

"You have been instructed to allow me access to the piano so long as it doesn't disturb the other patients!" he yelled at her, clenching his fists, one around his cane. "It's one of the only things that keep me from going insane in here! _Give me the goddamned key_!"

"You're in here because you _are_ insane," Brunhilde told him snottily, raising her voice as well. "Now go back to your room or I'll call for the orderlies!"

House felt the proverbial 'snap'. He lifted his cane by the base and with all of his strength behind it, brought it down like an axe against the glass with an ear-splitting crash.

**(~*~)**

"That does not give you the right to destroy hospital property and terrorize the nursing staff!"

House sat on the bed in the 'rubber room' as Nolan stood before him, glaring down in exasperation. House glared back up at him in defiance, gripping the mattress beneath him so tightly that his arms were visibly trembling. Two orderlies stood near the door to protect Nolan should House suddenly decide to attack him.

"Letting you leave Mayfield was obviously a mistake," Nolan went on. "You have a pretty good idea what Liv has. Anderson can deal with it from there. You're not going back to St. Luke's today."

"Gee, _Dad_," House snarked, "does that mean I'm _grounded_? Does _Mom_ know?"

"_I_ am your psychiatrist of record, Greg," the therapist told him. "I don't require Liv's approval."

Feeling thevpanic rising in him, House felt like he was going to go mad. He hated being locked up and he especially hated being caged in small spaces. How the hell was he supposed to gain his confidence and self-esteem back if he was treated like a child, being told when he could breathe or take a shit? Why couldn't Nolan understand that it was the sense of powerlessness and lack of control over his own life and circumstances that had contributed to his being locked up to begin with? He was fucking tired of people telling him what he could and could not do, which procedure or test he could perform and which one he couldn't! He was tired of people dictating to him who and what he was and condemning him if he didn't fit into the hole they wanted to shove him into. He couldn't take being censured, chastised, judged and abandoned any more. Hutton understood. She'd _gotten it_ when House's parents, teachers, colleagues, former employers and even Wilson hadn't. If only she were there to talk to, to reason with Nolan on his behalf!

A thought struck him. House looked at Nolan almost pleadingly. "I have an appointment with Hutton today," he told him, his voice sounding strained his breathing quickening. "She's expecting me and…and, aw fuck! I _really_ need to talk to her."

"If you need to talk about something, you can share whatever it is with me," Nolan told him, his voice sounding calmer.

House's mind was spinning. "No, I can't. I…I can only tell _her_. I only trust _her_. She understands me." He swallowed hard, his mouth already tasting the bitterness of the word he was about to use. "_Please_. I feel like I'm going to have a panic attack."

"I'll have a nurse bring you some Ativan."

This was getting beyond ridiculous, House decided. Why the fuck was he forced to have to deal with this charlatan anymore? He really _did_ need to see Hutton now.

"I don't _need_ Ativan," House told him, sounding defeated. He looked down at the floor and sighed heavily. "I just _need_ to talk to Hutton." The diagnostician lifted his feet from the floor and lay down on the bed facing away from the psychiatrist. He took in some deep, shaky breaths and swallowed hard again at the lump forming in his throat. "At St. Luke's yesterday I was actually feeling like a human being again, that there may be hope for my future. Here, I'm reminded that there isn't. Nolan, either let me go to Hutton or get the fuck out and leave me alone."

There was the sound of movement, muffled footfall on the padded floor and then the door shutting with a loud click. House felt his eyes begin to burn and his chest felt like it was going to explode. He was truly hyperventilating now; House closed his eyes and focused on regulating his breathing, slowing it down, exhaling completely, then slowly inhaling through his nose, holding for a second and then breathing out through his mouth again. He repeated the process over and over again. He repeated the whispered mantra, "I am not a rat in a cage. I am not a rat in a cage." It seemed like an epoch passed this way before he heard the door open again. A hand touched his shoulder a moment or two later, causing him to flinch.

House opened his eyes and turned his head to see who it was. It was a young nurse, probably barely out of college.

"What?" House grumbled softly, frowning.

"Dr. Nolan told me to bring you some Ativan to take," she answered. "When you're feeling calmer, I'll take you downstairs. He said that he'll be waiting at the employee exit."

House stared at her a moment without moving, wondering if this was some kind of test to see what he would do. He sat up slowly, feeling dizzy and accepted the point-five milligram sublingual tablet from her. She watched as he placed it under his tongue and then smiled sweetly at him.

"I'll need a cane," the diagnostician told her gruffly. His was toast. He knew that after a few years of working here that smile of hers would disappear and she'd begin the metamorphosis into a bitch similar to Brunhilde; it was regretful.

**Tuesday, June 1, 2010: 9:08 A.M.**

Olivia Hutton opened her eyes slowly when she felt a hand squeeze her shoulder gently and give it a little shake to wake her up. Standing over her was Darryl Nolan. She smiled weakly up at him as he took a seat. As she became more alert, she could see the strain in his face and the set of his jaw. Something was wrong. Hutton pressed the button on her bed rail and the head of the bed elevated until she was sitting nearly completely upright.

"What's up?" She demanded, frowning. "Where is House?"

"He's with Anderson in his office," Nolan replied and then sighed heavily, shaking his head. He related to her what had taken place between House and the nurses earlier that morning. "He managed to crack open the safety glass after hitting it with his cane five or six times. I think the only reason he stopped was because his cane snapped. I had to send the charge nurse home, she was so upset. I wasn't going to bring him today and just let him sweat it out in the Safe room for a few hours but he claimed to need to talk to you badly and was beginning to hyperventilate. I ordered him some Ativan and brought him."

Hutton found her ire rising. She narrowed her eyes. "What was House's story of what happened? Or didn't you ask?"

"I asked him what it was he thought he was going to accomplish by what he did," Nolan answered grimly, "and he answered that it was either the glass or him. _This_ is the patient you think is stable enough to be discharged early."

"I still believe he is," the younger psychiatrist told him firmly, her eyes flaring. She inhaled deeply and exhaled completely before continuing. "This is a prime example of why I believe he needs to get out of that prison as soon as possible. He's talked before about that nurse. He has two nicknames for her—Nurse Ratchet and Brunhilde the witch. I've had dealings with her myself. She is one of the most arrogant and unyielding persons I have ever known. You and I both know that it would have been harmless to let him play the piano for a while. It soothes him, helps him think clearly and relax. It's like medicine for him. There was no reason why he shouldn't have been allowed to play—his behavior the past few days has been exemplary. She didn't allow him because she is angry that he isn't receiving the same formulaic therapy the other patients are so she's going to remind him who's boss. I think if you had been open to hearing his side of the story you'd have seen a clearer picture of exactly the kind of crap he's had to put up with from a number of your staff."

"My staff is highly trained and professional," Nolan insisted defensively.

"They may be highly trained," Hutton agreed grudgingly, "but some of them have lost empathy for the patients and have shitty attitudes, Darryl. We've already had this conversation. Look, why did you ask me to become involved in House's therapy in the first place?"

"I believed your perspective would bring fresh ideas to his treatment," he answered, folding his arms across his chest in a subliminally defiant gesture.

"Then trust my perspective!" she exclaimed. "I'm not some resident doing her one and only psych rotation here. I know what I'm doing. You tried it your way and it didn't work with House—he's not your average patient. He's not _average_ anything. Let me try something else."

Nolan stared at her in silence for a while and she met his gaze confidently. Eventually he sighed and gave her a half-hearted nod.

**(~*~)**

The phone call came shortly after House arrived at Anderson's office. Nolan had wanted to talk with Hutton before House did, probably to tattle on him and try to turn her against him, so House set out to find the pediatrician. He sat on a leather sofa, resting his extremely pained leg. Anderson answered the phone.

"Yes? Oh, yes, hello Dr. Wilson! Thank you so much for taking the time—yes, House is here. I'm going to put this on speakerphone." Anderson pressed a button on the phone base and then placed the receiver into its cradle.

"Wilson," House said. "What, you couldn't sleep and decided to go in early or has Cuddy changed your workday on you?"

"I figured you'd want the results a.s.a.p. so I came in early," the oncologist responded. "Besides, for the rest of the day I'll be helping changing bed pans and changing bedding thanks to the nurse's strike Brenda's firing precipitated."

"Better you than me," House told him, smirking. The diagnostician sobered quickly. "Which is it?"

"They're all benign," Wilson told them, and House could hear the smile in his voice; it was a welcome change of pace for him to be able to make that diagnosis.

House exhaled in relief and he could see the small pleased smile appear of Anderson's face.

"That's great news, Doctor," Anderson told him. "Now we have to remove the adenoma from her pituitary and determine if it's benign as well. Thank you so much."

"Believe me," Wilson said from the other end of the line, "It's my pleasure—at least my day begins with good news to give."

Anderson leaned in to House and murmured, "I'm going to go and tell Liv."

"Sure—go capture all the gratitude and glory for you," House muttered sarcastically.

Chuckling, Anderson hurried out of his office, leaving House alone with Wilson still on the line; House suspected that was the whole point.

"Wilson, it's just me now," House told him after rising to go to the desk and sit in the executive chair behind it. He disengaged the speakerphone and spoke into the handset. "Thank you."

"For what?" Wilson asked genuinely. "For the consult? No problem."

There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence between them, unlike how it used to be. It both felt so good and hurt so much for House to hear his voice. Things weren't the same as they used to be and never would be again; only time would tell if that was a good thing or not.

Clearing his throat Wilson was the first to break the silence. "I spoke with the civil law attorney I told you about. He's actually in Philly today on business and has time to get together for lunch and discuss the situation with us, that is, if you're able."

"I can't leave St. Luke's and I'm not certain how long I'm going to be here today," House told him. "Nolan is pissed with me. Don't ask; trust me, you don't want to know. We'd have to meet here in the cafeteria if it's to happen at all."

"I figured as much." the oncologist assured him, "so that's what I told him. Is eleven too early? He has to be in Trenton for Two."

House sighed and nodded, then remembered that Wilson couldn't see the gesture. "Yeah. That's fine."

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked hesitantly. "You sound more…depressed than yesterday. Does it have anything to do with why Nolan is pissed at you?"

House sighed silently and closed his eyes. He wished he could open up to his best friend and tell him everything, all of his frustrations and fears and hurts and receive comfort but he couldn't. If he admitted everything to Wilson, he would end up being lectured to about his irresponsibility and lack of self-control and somehow it would all come down, as it usually did, to his Vicodin addiction. He hadn't used in over a year, but it would always be the excuse and conclusion for everything that ever happened, past, present, and future. Wilson would never be able to forgive him for it stemming yet from the Tritter nightmare and House would never be able to forgive the oncologist for not letting it drop once and for all.

If this didn't change, if the younger man couldn't get over the past, there was no hope for a deeper relationship between them. Until Wilson realized that he was just as responsible for the problems in their friendship as House was, they were doomed to fail…and it broke House's heart to think about that, so he tried hard not to.

"House? Are you still there?" the oncologist asked when House failed to answer.

House opened his eyes and sat up in his seat. He cleared his throat. "Yeah. I'm fine—just tired. I'll see you later."

He hung up and took a couple of deep breaths, getting control over his unwanted emotions before getting up from the chair and leaving Anderson's office. Using the hospital issue cane the young nurse had found for him before he left Mayfield, he made his way to Hutton's room. The walking aid wasn't quite long enough for his height so he felt like he was slightly stooped over and it was throwing his balance out. When he tried to compensate he felt discomfort in his right hip. That, added to the normal pain in his leg and the pain from the aneurysm in his pelvic region made him feel miserable. For the first time in days he found himself craving Vicodin something terrible.

When the diagnostician arrived at the IC room Nolan and Anderson were on their way out. House stared after them until they rounded a corner and were out of sight. He pushed open the door and stepped in. Hutton was laying motionlessly, her eyes closed, her breathing calm and regular. If she wasn't asleep, she was close. He sighed and decided to sit down and wait but as he took a seat in the chair next to the bed the psychiatrist opened her eyes and stared at him.

"Go back to sleep," he told her quietly. "I can wait for another time for our session."

Hutton shook her head and smiled softly.

"No, I'm fine," she assured him. "Darryl mentioned that you seemed quite adamant about needing to talk to me. What happened this morning?"

"I'm sure Nolan filled you in," House told her, snorting in disgust. He avoided her searching gaze.

"He did," she answered with a nod, "but he wasn't there when it actually happened. His testimony is hearsay and inadmissible in my court. I want you to tell me from your perspective what happened."

"It doesn't matter what _I _say happened," the older doctor told her cynically.

"House, look at me please," Hutton asked of him. She waited patiently until he reluctantly did. His eyes were large and vulnerable. "_I_ care about what you have to say. It matters to _me_."

The look in her eyes was earnest and he believed that she actually meant it. House sighed, his entire body relaxing visibly. He felt himself allowing his guard down more than he usually did.

"I lost it," he admitted, "and I'm not sure why."

"Well, give me the play-by-play," the psychiatrist instructed, "and we can figure out why later, okay?"

He nodded and cleared his throat. "I was awakened early this morning by a call from Anderson about your MRI results. I was already awake and breakfast wasn't for a while so I dressed and went to the nursing station and asked the charge nurse for the key to the piano. You can't hear it from the rooms so I wasn't going to disturb the other patients. I thought that playing would help me with the boredom. I was feeling anxious and playing helps calm me."

"Sounds like an excellent idea to me," Hutton told him, nodding encouragingly.

He looked at her and smirked bitterly. "Brunhilde didn't think so."

"By Brunhilde I gather you're referring to Nurse Williams?"

House nodded. "I prefer Brunhilde," he insisted. "It suits her witch-like nature. She refused to give it to me no matter my argument. I tried to tell her that the piano keeps me sane in there. She told me I was already insane and then told me she'd have the orderly take me back to my room if I didn't go back on my own." He sighed, shaking his head at himself as much as he was at the nurse's behavior. "I lost it. I took my cane and smashed open the glass shield of the nursing station before the orderlies were able to wrestle me to the floor and hold me still long enough for Brunhilde to stick a needle in my ass. I woke up in the Safe Room with Nolan glaring at me. He lectured me about controlling my rage, vandalism, and terrorizing the staff. He wasn't interested in anything I had to say and told me that I was grounded. I…I started to panic and told him that I needed to talk to you. He relented and brought me here."

Hutton took a deep breath and exhaled loudly through her nose. Her lips were pressed together in a straight line and her eyes were angry. He was expecting her to reprimand him as well when she surprised him.

"Well, I'd suggest that she must be on the rag but the unfortunate truth is she's always that bitchy," Hutton told him angrily. It earned her an amazed look and a snicker from her patient. "I'm sorry you were treated so harshly for simply wanting to display a healthy method of self-soothing your anxiety. Mayfield should be a place where you feel safe and encouraged to practice some of the emotional regulation skills you've been learning in group. You most certainly shouldn't be treated like dog shit on the bottom of their shoes!"

Shrugging, House admitted, "I wasn't exactly the poster boy for politeness either. I overreacted and behaved like the maniac she suggested I was."

"You may have responded poorly," the psychiatrist acknowledged with a nod, "but she's a professional and should know better than to provoke and insult a patient like that. In your case, House, you've been told you're abnormal and bad most of your life by the people in your life who should have been your cheerleaders instead of detractors. If someone hears that they are a certain way often enough for an extended period of time, they begin to behave in a way congruent to those expectations. I don't condone your violent reaction to Nurse Williams but she instigated the incident instead of dealing with it rationally and with care."

Not knowing how to respond to what she'd just said, he remained silent, looking at his hands which were folded loosely on his lap. When he looked up at her again he couldn't help but notice that she was quietly regarding him with hazel eyes that were more of a pretty moss green than usual.

"You said you were feeling anxious and that was one of the reasons you wanted to play the piano in order to soothe yourself," she pointed out, recapping. "What were you thinking about when you first realized you were feeling anxious?"

Frowning, House sat forward in his seat and stared off into the middle space as he pondered her question for a few moments. "I woke up feeling that way. I had a dream right before I was awakened to take the phone call."

"Can you remember what it was about?" Hutton asked patiently and then took a sip of water from the glass that had been resting on her bedside table.

"Some of it," the diagnostician admitted. "It was about Wilson and what happened when I'm discharged from Mayfield "

"Can you share it with me?" she asked gently.

House swallowed hard. "I took the bus back to Princeton just like the first time and showed up at my apartment to find Wilson there waiting for me. He told me that he was in love with me and wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. We ended up in bed and had sex most of the night and fell asleep holding each other." He cleared his throat again, avoiding her eyes and looking uncomfortable. "When I woke up the next morning I found myself alone. Wilson was gone. I went to his loft and knocked on his door. He opened it up and I asked him why he'd left me. Then I heard a woman's giggle in the loft. I pushed past him and found Sam standing there in a negligee and smiling tauntingly at me. I asked Wilson why he would leave me and go back to her. Both of them began to laugh and told me that Wilson had never slept with me and that I had hallucinated the entire thing just like I had with Cuddy. I kept yelling that it hadn't been a hallucination but they kept laughing at me, mocking me. That's when I was awakened."

He couldn't look up at his therapist. He felt so humiliated and ashamed and didn't want her to see just how close he was to tears.

"House?" Hutton addressed him softly. "May I hold your hand for a moment?"

Hesitantly he nodded and lifted his hand, placing it on the bed. She picked it up with cool, gentle hands and wrapped them around his, squeezing slightly. He swallowed hard, feeling suddenly very overwhelmed by the tender gesture.

"Look at me, House," she told him. He didn't want to. He was afraid to. "Please?" she added.

Very reluctantly he steeled himself and looked up to meet her eyes, afraid he was going to see her pitying him. Instead she had an affectionate smile and sad eyes.

"Thank you," Hutton said. "Are you afraid that's what is going to happen in reality?"

He nodded, feeling his eyes begin to burn. He couldn't trust himself to speak.

"Correct me if I'm reading this wrong okay?" she told him. "Are you assuming this will happen because of the way you have felt abandoned by him in the past?"

Again the diagnostician nodded, feeling the corners of his mouth pull downward sadly. There were real tears in his eyes and he tried hard to blink them back but it was an exercise in futility. One ran down his cheek.

"Tell me what you're thinking right this moment," Hutton encouraged him.

He released a shuddering breath. "I love him but…I can't go through that again," House whispered. "I can't be with him; I can't go home. If I do, I might not survive."


	22. Chapter 22 Part 2 Ch 10

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** This is a longer chapter than usual but I couldn't justify breaking it up into two smaller ones. It's around 6800 words. This chapter has some Cuddy bashing but I promise that once this story wraps up you'll understand why and things will be resolved that will put her into a more sympathetic light. No Beta for this so please forgive the mistakes that I missed as I read it through. Cross-posted at House_Wilson on LJ.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Nine: Tuesday, June 1, 2010; 10:17 A.M.**

Hutton squeezed her patient's hand gently, comfortingly. She hated to see him hurting as badly as he was, and she appreciated the fact that he paid her an incredible compliment by trusting her enough to open up so completely to her. His entire body was trembling as he strained at holding back the gut-wrenching sobs she knew were threatening to escape him. It was moments like these when Hutton knew her methodology was dangerous. She was finding it difficult to remain objective. She had grown to care a great deal for this hurting man; she had to fight her urge to protect him. It wasn't her job to shelter and defend him. Her responsibility was to help him get to the point where he could protect himself in a healthy, functional way.

"House, you have to do what is best for you," she told him. "I'm not telling you what to do concerning Wilson. That's up to you. However, if you don't feel you can be safe if you return to Princeton, then I think it would be wise not to, at least temporarily."

After thinking about that for a moment, House nodded in agreement. He sighed. "Aside from Wilson, there's nothing left in Princeton for me. I don't have a job there anymore, nor family or friends. There's my apartment and my things. That's about it. Fuck, there's nothing for me anywhere else for that matter."

"I think you're wrong about that," Hutton announced a tad smugly.

House rolled his eyes at her, pulling his hand from her grasp. Sounding annoyed he responded, "I'm not exactly every hospital administrator's first choice to hire. I can't rely on a good reference from Cuddy, obviously. I'm a drug addict and mentally unstable. Hell, even after the cuts on my arms heal there will be scars that I won't be able to hide unless I wear long-sleeves all the time and never have to scrub up for a procedure. Who's going to want a doctor who attempted suicide to treat them? I have a little money tucked away but not nearly enough to live off of for very long. I might be able to find something in research but I'd go insane from boredom very rapidly at that. I'm _not _wrong."

"Your scars go to show that you have survived some pretty hard days and are courageous enough to keep going," Hutton insisted. "Besides, scars can be greatly faded by laser treatment. As for you being 'not wrong', you don't have all of the information you need yet to make that determination."

House frowned in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Hutton began to smile cautiously, trying to determine exactly how to tell him her news where he wouldn't feel like his life was being controlled and dictated to and thus engender resentment and distrust.

"What would you say if I told you I can get you sprung from inpatient treatment and present you with some options that might help solve some of the difficulties you face once your treatment is complete?" Hutton told him carefully, watching him closely for a reaction. She had no idea whether he was going to take to any of what she had arranged or not.

"What are you talking about?" House demanded, eyeing her suspiciously. "Getting out of Mayfield early sounds right…what's the catch?"

"Relax, there's no reason for you to be so wary," his therapist assured him. "You're giving me the same look my cat does when I pull out the pet carrier. She always assumes I'm taking her to the vet."

"Just tell me," House told her shortly, appearing to relax a little but still watching her carefully.

Hutton opened her mouth to speak when a pang struck her abdomen. It was nothing new. She flinched visibly and sat very still until the worst of it passed. She looked back to House to find him frowning with concern instead of suspicion.

"I'm fine," she told him, shrugging it off. "Same old same old. Anyway, before I tell you any details I need to make certain that nothing I tell you is set in stone. Nobody is trying to control you or your life. You're master and commander. I simply put out feelers and made arrangements that require your agreement if you want to give it. It's all entirely up to you."

Rolling his eyes in exasperation House then regarded her with an annoyed stare. He had taken in cane and placed it between his knees; he was impatiently tapping it on the floor. "I get it. No pressure. Care to tell me what the hell it is you're talking about?"

Hutton exhaled loudly before beginning. "I have been questioning whether or not it was best for you to return to Princeton right away following your discharge and I was going to tell you that but you saved me the bother. I didn't want to tell you I thought it best to remain in the Philadelphia region at least for the first six months to a year unless I could assure you that you do have opportunities for living and employment here if you're interested. I put out feelers, called a couple of people but mostly just talked about your skill as a world-class diagnostician as I networked. Then I made a deal with Nolan that will allow you to be discharged early if you remain in the area to go through an outpatient program here at St. Luke's.

"Here's the deal: I happen to know that the chief administrator of this hospital, Dr. Xander Roth, is an avid fan of yours. For years he's wanted to develop a department of diagnostic medicine at St. Luke's based on the model you developed at PPTH. He's obtained the approval of the Board of Directors but he didn't want to go ahead with it until he had a competent diagnostician to head up the development and leadership of the department. Don't tell him I told you this, but he's envied PPTH for years for having grabbed you up; he even went so far as to put spies out there but you never seemed like you were looking to go anywhere else. In fact, according to Xander there are a number of hospitals in the northeast who have been eyeing you for a while."

House shook his head in disbelief. "He's mistaken. I was fired from Johns Hopkins and had no prospects until Cuddy took pity on me and hired me. It's like she's told me many times; I'm unemployable. No other administrator wants to touch me with a ten foot pole."

"Xander is many things, but he's seldom wrong when it comes to this kind of thing," Hutton insisted. Gently she went on to say, "Doesn't it strike you as strange that at the same time Cuddy has been telling you you're unemployable and lucky to be working for her at PPTH she's been using you as a poster boy for her hospital and bragging about your incredible value to other hospital administrators and donors alike? If you're so unemployable, why do various prestigious medical journals in this country and abroad clamor for you to submit papers and articles? If you're as pathetic as she's been telling you, why have you been asked to speak at seven medical conferences this year alone, three of which want you as keynote speaker?"

"Your Intel is wrong," House told her adamantly. "I've only been asked to speak at two so far this year and neither of them as keynote."

"Those are the invitations you received in your home mail and e-mail, aren't they?" Hutton asked knowingly.

"Yes, my personal e-mail." House shook his head, scowling. "So what?"

"Roth's spy told him at least four more were sent to Cuddy's office," she informed him. "She never told you about them, did she?"

House's expression went blank and his cerulean blues widened with realization. His fists clenched involuntarily and his breathing picked up slightly. His body language screamed his answer for him.

"She didn't," he admitted, his voice deep and laced with anger.

"I know," Hutton agreed forcing her voice to remain calm. She was angry for his sake, too. When Xander had told her about it, she'd been ready to drive down to Princeton and confront Cuddy in person about it. Fortunately common sense and professionalism prevailed and she refrained from doing so. "Xander was told that the word was you'd refused."

"I usually do," House said. "I'm not fond of speaking at conferences. Standing for extended periods of time is extremely difficult. Having to schmooze with sops and saps all weekend?—I rather have a root canal. However, I'm the one who makes those decisions, not Cuddy."

"Apparently she does," Hutton told him with a sigh, "you just don't know it. Cuddy knows very well how valuable you've been to PPTH over the years. She also knows that there are at least three hospitals, including this one, interested in acquiring you. She's fed you lies for years so you wouldn't ask questions or try to find employment elsewhere, House. She's not the first administrator to do it, but she's the first one in a long time to do it so…deceptively. I'm willing to bet you one hundred dollars that she underpays you as well. If she has you convinced that there are no other offers on the table and that nobody else wants to hire you, you'll be more accepting of being paid whatever she's willing. It's cutthroat but so is the corporate world and she does what she does quite well. She used your low self-esteem against you, and then called herself your friend. Then, when she's receiving pressure she fires you illegally.

"I'm not telling you this to destroy Cuddy's reputation or cause you to hate her. I don't want you to be hurt by this news. However, you need to realize that your status outside of PPTH is much higher than what she's been telling you. You do have hope. You are _very_ valuable, and not just as a diagnostician. I'm also telling you this because Xander wants to meet with you about heading up a new department of diagnostics here at St. Luke's—and he's damned serious about it. Of course, it's your choice entirely whether you want to pursue this opportunity or not but it _is_ there and I didn't have to lie, guilt or blackmail anyone for it."

House appeared to be in shock. He sat back in his seat. At first he slumped as if feeling sad or defeated, then his spine stiffened, and the muscles in his jaw worked away as he deeply thought about what he'd just been told. Hutton felt it had been necessary to tell him but she'd known it would be a bitter pill for him to swallow.

"Tell me what's going on," Hutton demanded softly. "What are you thinking and feeling right now?"

House swallowed hard several times and opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Whatever it was, Hutton observed, it was powerful and at risk of overwhelming him again.

"I'm here for you, House," she reminded him. "You can tell me anything and be assured that I'm not going to abandon you or retaliate. You can't shock me. I've pretty much heard it all and I won't judge you."

House closed his eyes for a moment and the opened them to look directly at the therapist. "I've been a fucking moron," he said at last, his voice growly. "How could have been so goddamned naïve? I trusted her—hell, I was prepared to start a relationship with her at one point." He pounded an armrest of his chair furiously and his voice rose dramatically. "Damn her! And damn me for falling for it! I'm angry, goddamnit! I'm incensed! I'm…I'm…." Tears wet his eyes again. "I thought she cared about me."

"_Emotions_, House," Hutton pressed, reminding him. "You're angry. Good. What else? Focus!"

"I don't know," he answered, shaking his head. "I don't fucking know!"

"Yes you do," the psychiatrist assured him. "You know. You can do this. What else are you feeling?"

"I told you I don't know!" he yelled, rising to his feet so that he was looming over her in an intimidating manner without intending to. His body was trembling with repressed emotion threatening to reach the surface. "I can't do this!"

"What are the tears about, House?" Hutton asked him calmly, trying to get him to focus his thoughts on what was going on by pointing out physical clues in and on his body. "Why are you crying? What are you feeling?"

He looked down at her and blinked a couple of times, sending a few tears down his cheeks. He wasn't sobbing. "Hurt," he admitted. "I'm pissed off and I'm hurt…it hurts."

"Emotion," she murmured. "Hurt is a condition. What is the _emotion_ behind it?" He swiped his hand over his face to wipe the moisture away and for the briefest moment a look of fury crossed his eyes before disappearing, being replaced with lucidity again.

"Sadness," he answered, and sat down again, looking completely exhausted. Hutton had no doubt that he was. Facing one's own demons, battling one's own emotions was draining. "Why do I feel sad?"

"I can't say for certain," Hutton told him. "That's something only you know. But if I were in your shoes, I'd be sad because I would feel betrayed, or like a friend just died. It's grief, and we don't just experience it when somebody literally dies. Whenever we suffer a loss we experience grief. You haven't allowed yourself to grieve a lot of things, House. You've gotten stuck somewhere in the process. You still grieve the loss of your trust in your father, as well as his death. You grieve the loss of the full function and health of your leg and the things you used to be able to do and can't anymore, the loss of control over what happened with your body, and losing your girlfriend over it. You grieve the closeness in your friendship with Wilson and the loss of the trust you had in him. You grieve what you lost with Amber's death and your fellow…umm…Kutner. You grieve the loss of the Vicodin and the way it gave you at least a modicum of pain relief. You grieve the loss of trust in Cuddy and her friendship. You grieve the loss of Hannah and for your job of many years. You grieve over the way you've hurt yourself and you grieve the end of the phase of your life spent in Princeton.

"I don't believe you've ever really allowed yourself to finish grieving any of those things. The pain won't diminish and you won't find peace about those things until you finish grieving them and let them _go_."

"How the fuck do I finish grieving these things?" House demanded. "I thought I had, that I was. How do I end it?"

"Well, the first step is to admit that you _are_ grieving," Hutton told him with a weak smile. "Next, you have to give yourself _permission_ to grieve, whatever that may entail. Then you have to allow yourself to _experience_ it. Sit in the emotions. Stew in them. Allow yourself to feel every single one and don't judge them or yourself for feeling them. Emotions aren't good or bad and they won't kill you and I won't let you take them out on yourself anymore. Let them come so you can let them go for good. You have to be caring and gentle with yourself, show compassion for yourself. Then you just let go. Maybe that means you decide to forgive. Maybe that means accepting that it hurts but it's good because you've survived it and you are stronger for having experienced it. It's different for everyone, but if you stay open to it, your mind and body will know what to do. It won't happen overnight but it will happen. Finally, you accept the kindness and comfort of others; you allow them to take care of you and help you get through it. You have me. Believe it or not, you have Nolan. He's a stubborn man with set beliefs but he does care. Let us be there for you. Okay?"

House appeared to be battling something in his mind for a moment or two before nodding. "Okay," he whispered.

She knew he wasn't certain he could do it on his own, and he hated to lean on others for help, but if it meant getting over the baggage in his life, he was willing to try.

"Are you feeling up to finding out more about the opportunities available, or would you like to leave that for now and come back to it after you've gotten some rest and feel better? You did awesome today, House. You've worked really hard and I'm very impressed, I really am."

The diagnostician allowed himself a smirk at that. "Give me some good news to hang onto," he said. "I've got more than enough bad news to deal with to last me another fifty years."

Hutton smiled and nodded. "Okay, she told him. She took a few deep breaths, feeling worn out herself. "The job at St. Luke's is basically yours for the taking, if you choose to do so. Xander is exacting and sometimes domineering but he is also extremely intelligent, tolerant, and fair. He's open to new ideas and doesn't look over your shoulder constantly. He does run a tight ship but he also believes in allowing the people he's hired the freedom to do what they have to do and take responsibility for it. He has the Board eating out of his hand most of the time. He can be arrogant, harsh and demanding at times, but I think that might be something you and he have in common."

House cast her a dirty glare but his lips were fighting a smile.

"Nolan has agreed with the early discharge so long as you attend a thirty day outpatient program either at Mayfield or here. Both programs run five days a week from nine in the morning to two-thirty in the afternoon. You will also be required to continue one-on-one psychotherapy with myself two days a week, minimum. Once you complete the program, he will contact the New Jersey and Pennsylvania state medical boards recommending that you're license be reinstated and instated respectably. Your application to the Pennsylvania board has already been filed and held pending your approval and the regular attendance and completion of the program. While in Outpatient Roth has said he'd be interested in hiring you temporarily as an independent consultant as the department is being formed, so you won't require your license before you can start with that. The department will be yours as soon as the license is issued.

"During Outpatient you will require somewhere to stay and you won't be earning a salary immediately. I have a feeling you wouldn't enjoy living in a halfway house and I don't think it would be good for you. I've been able to secure very affordable accommodations that would provide you with privacy while still having easy access to St. Luke's. Of course, all of this is up to you, House. You can say no to all of this and your decision will be accepted. The only catch is that Nolan will _not_ approve an early discharge unless you agree to the Outpatient treatment program and continued one-on-one therapy."

House was quiet, staring off into the middle space as he thought seriously about what she was telling him. His expression was unreadable as were his eyes and body language. Hutton was encouraged by that. He could be screaming negatively in his appearance instead of neutrality. She remained silent, allowing him to think this through. After a few minutes his mind came back and his eyes narrowed again.

"Why didn't you tell me you were arranging things before this?" he demanded. "You don't think I can take care of myself?"

"I believe you are _quite_ capable of making your own arrangements," the psychiatrist told him mildly. "However, you have to spend a lot of time and concentration on therapy and having to make arrangements of this type would be very taxing. I did this to make your life a little bit easier and give you a sense of security knowing that you don't have to deal with these issues immediately; now you have more time to focus on healing. You don't need any more stress right now. But remember, you're not being forced to accept this. It's entirely up to you."

House pondered that a bit. "Why is Outpatient necessary? It's just the same old shit I've gone through my first time through Mayfield and I'm suffering through now. It's a waste of time!"

Hutton nodded regretfully. "It was a bargaining issue when I was trying to persuade Nolan to discharge you early. He wouldn't agree to it unless you enrolled in an Outpatient program. He was concerned that you would simply return to Princeton ill-prepared to jump right back into 'real' life and end up trying to hurt yourself again. I understand that you don't want to have to go through it again but it's a concession you'll have to make. The difference between Outpatient and remaining inpatient at Mayfield is that it affords you more freedom and autonomy, and you don't have to deal with the crap you've been facing with the staff at Mayfield. You'll have more privacy, you'll be able to move about on your own and you'll be allowed to begin working on the diagnostics department which should help relieve some of the boredom you've been experiencing. It's not a perfect situation, but since when is life perfect?"

Sighing, House then told her, "Tell me about the accommodations."

With a smile Hutton said, "It's a two bedroom, twelve hundred square foot bungalow that's less than ten years old and located on an acreage twenty minutes from Philadelphia. Driving time to work would average thirty-five to forty minutes during the morning rush.

"The house has A/C, a forced air furnace for winter, hot water tank and a water softener because the water is from an underground well. The master bedroom has a full bathroom ensuite with a Jacuzzi soaker tub and separate shower stall. There's another full bath as well. No formal dining room exists but there is a large country-style kitchen with gas appliances. There is a mud-slash-laundry room with a barely used front-loading electric washing machine and dryer. The living space has a fourteen foot vaulted ceiling with skylights, a large picture window and a wood-burning fireplace. It's completely furnished in neutral tones and isn't 'girly'. There is plenty of room for your grand piano. It's hardwood throughout except for the kitchen, mudroom and bathrooms which are tiled. It also sports a lovely lawn and around back is a large deck, gas barbeque grill and fire pit. There's also a double detached garage. You will have neighbors but they are about a hundred yards away and the two houses are separated by a wind-belt of trees. You could wander around your backyard buck-naked and no one would know—not that I'm _encouraging_ that.

"While you're in Outpatient and not working full-time, the owner is waving all rent and utilities but you'll have to pay for your own satellite service, internet and a five hundred dollar damage deposit. Pets are allowed so long as they're house-trained and don't eat the furniture. Once you're working full-time you will have the opportunity to continue renting the place for a thousand a month, utilities included. The neighbor is the owner of the property and there are two older children who live there. So, what do you think?"

House smirked. "So who do I have to fuck to live there?" he asked sarcastically.

Hutton laughed at that and then groaned when her abdomen protested. "No one. I promise. I know the owner quite well."

The diagnostician looked at her, still with the smirk, and smugly appraised her for a moment. He began to nod. "You're the owner." It wasn't a question but a confident statement.

"You don't miss much," the psychiatrist told him, "which is not a surprise. I live on an eighty acre piece of land. My kids have horses and are expert riders. My daughter is very responsible and makes spending money giving riding lessons to the kids in the area. When Marcus's parents began to show their age he was concerned about them living on their own in Philadelphia and he didn't want to see them end up in an old-age home so he built the second house for them. They lived there for about a year and a half before his father died from a stroke. His mother decided shortly after that to move in with her sister in Delaware. I had one set of renters who lived there for a couple years but otherwise it's sat empty, which is a shame. It really is a beautiful home. You wouldn't have to worry about the yard up-keep because my son loves cutting grass on our lawn tractor and there really isn't a whole lot to do, otherwise. There are no stairs inside and only three steps to the front door with a ramp as well; it was built to accommodate my mother-in-law's walker. The master ensuite is safety fitted with grab bars."

"I don't take charity," he told her bluntly.

"It's not charity," she told him, shaking her head. "You'll be paying rent after the Outpatient program ends if you so choose to remain there. If you want, you can pay for the first month doing small repairs around the yard. There aren't many, though. I'm pretty handy with a tool box. I don't believe in charity, really. You don't have to decide right away. You can take a few days to think about it if you like but remember, the longer you take deciding, the longer you have to put up with people like Nurse Williams dictating your life and treating you like crap."

"And you're sure I don't have to fuck you to get this?" House asked, smiling slightly in amusement. "Even if I have no problem with that?"

Hutton shook her head. "I'm positive. Absolutely _no_ fucking."

"May I bring company home with me for sleepovers?" he asked, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

"No, House," she answered, dead-pan. "You're never allowed to have sex in your own home again. Listen, so long as there's no money exchanged and you're discreet, it's not a problem."

House nodded his head. "There's not much to think about. It's a hell of a lot more attractive than staying the full time at Mayfield and then returning to Princeton where I don't have anything to return to. Except for Wilson, that is, and, well…." His voice trailed off and he sighed. "For now that's not a good idea, either. So…yes."

"Yes? Yes to what I've presented to you?" the therapist asked in confirmation.

"Yes," he answered. He pressed his lips together into a somewhat grim line. "It's time for me to move on."

The psychiatrist was quiet a moment before saying, "Moving on doesn't mean leaving absolutely everything behind forever. The good things come with, the bad things stay behind. There may come a time in the future when Wilson and you are very good thing; maybe not. Just don't burn that bridge quite yet."

A sense of relief came over the diagnostician and he smiled.

**(~*~)**

He had no idea how he was going to break the news to Wilson. He could only imagine what the younger man's reaction was going to be when he found out that House was moving away for what might end up being permanently. Wilson was anticipating them living together at the loft as lovers, but House knew he couldn't go back to the way things were before. He was working hard to get his shit together and as much as he loved Wilson—and he loved him desperately—he had to start putting his own health and sanity first. His main fear was that Wilson would be angry enough to end their friendship. That's the last thing in the world House wanted. He couldn't imagine his life without Wilson, in one way or another, as a part of it.

House thought about the situation for quite some time after leaving Hutton's room. There was still a chance for them. Wilson had been saying that he was getting his CV together and putting out feelers because he was no longer satisfied remaining at PPTH. He had an extraordinary reputation in his specialization and House had no doubt that the younger doctor would be able to find employment elsewhere without much difficulty at all. Perhaps he could focus his search to the Camden/Trenton/Philadelphia region? That way he could move to Philly with House following his Outpatient stint. He was fairly certain Hutton would have no problem with Wilson moving in with him, and if that didn't work out they could find another place together. He might even be able to convince Wilson to seek some kind of therapy to deal with his own issues—because Wilson had them, perhaps as many as House did. If their relationship was to last, it would be important that they _both _were healing and moving forward.

He was actually feeling much better about his situation when he reached the cafeteria. He saw Anderson in line and nodded hello as he passed him but Anderson called to him.

"House! How do you take your coffee?"

The diagnostician raised a surprised eyebrow in response. "Black and syrupy," he replied. "You buying?"

"That's why I asked," the pediatrician answered, getting two steaming cups, fixing them and then paying the cashier. House sat at a nearby table, hanging his cane on the back of the neighboring chair. Anderson joined him, sitting across from him and setting House's coffee in front of him. House looked at it almost suspiciously, then mentally shrugged and gave a nod of appreciation. He took a large sip. He could feel it rotting his teeth as it passed through his mouth; it was perfect.

"I've met with the gastroenterologist, Harry Quinn and the endocrinologist Stan Dreiden and have her surgeries booked. They're both fantastic doctors; she's in good hands."

"Good," House said. "How soon?"

"The gastrinoma ablation and ulcer repair is set for two o'clock this afternoon," Anderson answered.

"That's fast," House commented with approval and then took another ginger sip of his hot drink. "You have pull around here or what?"

"'Or what'," Anderson told him, smirking. "He had a last minute cancellation and agreed to fit her in right away. It doesn't hurt that Liv is pretty well liked around here. The endocrinologist booked her for surgery on the adenoma for the day after tomorrow, to give her time to recover from today's procedure. Then she has laparoscopic removal and repair of the pancreatic gastrinoma on Friday. If all goes well, she could be looking at being discharged as soon as Tuesday or Wednesday of next week. By the way, the MEN-1 test came back negative."

House nodded as he brought the coffee cup up to his mouth. The negative result didn't mean she didn't have ZES; it simply meant that her case was not associated with the hereditary trait which was good news for her and her children.

The diagnostician was impressed with the speed and efficiency of the way things were done around St. Luke's. It was a good sign. Cuddy was a capable administrator but there always seemed to be a lack of efficiency, tons of tedious paperwork to be completed for the smallest of procedures and infighting and rivalry between departments and doctors in those departments. After complaining about it once Cuddy had informed him that the only trouble was with him because he'd pissed off the other department heads at one point or another. That was probably true, but it didn't excuse the games, the power struggles and the wait times to get things done. A mandate of a hospital was to provide patients with treatment and care as quickly and efficiently as possible; as much as House portrayed a lack of interest in the care of his patients beyond solving the puzzle of their diagnosis, he really was concerned that they received proper and prompt attention.

"So, you're already fodder for the hospital grapevine," Anderson informed him with an amused smile. "Word has it Roth's head hunting and he's set his sight on yours. Care to confirm or deny such rumors?"

House rolled his eyes. "Did Hutton talk to you about it?"

"Liv hasn't said a word to me about Roth and you," the pediatrician answered. "So it's true, then?"

A shrug was offered in response. After House swallowed and set his cup down he vocalized, "It's possible. Something about him having wet dreams about establishing a diagnostic department here and being interested in having me head it up. I haven't actually talked to the man, so I can't really confirm or deny anything yet. Why? Do you have a problem with that?"

"Absolutely not," Anderson assured him. "I think it's a good idea, actually. Of course I would imagine your current employer will have something to say about it. It gives you bargaining power, though."

_Yeah, right_, House thought gloomily. He was hoping Cuddy _wouldn't_ have anything to say about it. He didn't need the 'help' of an enemy. He wasn't exactly ready to tell this man the truth—that he no longer had an employer and was basically ready to take whatever he was offered. Anderson seemed okay, but he didn't know him or trust him enough yet.

"We'll see," he told Anderson vaguely. His eye was drawn to the approach of a tall, perfectly dressed man wearing a lab coat like Wilson did, but instead of a pocket protector in the pocket there was a bright red handkerchief.

"Well _hello_ there," the man said to House once he'd reached their table. He checked him out rather blatantly and gave him a flirty little smile. "Gage, introduce me to your friend."

The diagnostician's gay-meter redlined. He couldn't help a hint of an amused smirk. It had been a long time since he was flirted with by another man, not counting Wilson, that is. Hell, lately he hadn't had that many women flirting with him, either. On that depressing note, he looked to Anderson expectantly.

Anderson looked up with a look that wasn't quite dread. "House, this is a colleague of mine, Dr. Justin Clee. He's St. Luke's top vascular surgeon. Justin, this is Dr. Gregory House, Chief of Diagnostics at—"

House cut him off, "Hi," he said brusquely.

"Hi," Clee said, taking an uninvited seat at the table, forcing Anderson to move sideways to the other chair on that side. He extended a long-fingered, perfectly manicured hand to House, still giving him the same smile. "It's a _pleasure_ to meet you, Dr. House."

House couldn't help but be amused bythe obvious interest the other man had in him. Clee wasn't half-bad looking himself, and in another time in another universe he might have considered casually dating him, but not here and now. He loved Wilson and Clee would be another complication he didn't need to add to the mix he was already embroiled in.

Still, he couldn't resist flirting back a little. House smiled warmly and shook his hand, holding it a moment longer than necessary and then watching Clee for a response. "Nice to meet you."

Clee gave Anderson a quick glare. "Gage didn't tell me he knew you. I remember attending a conference in New York a couple of years ago where you were one of the speakers. I was quite impressed with your presentation on the complications of vasculitis in previously compromised renal function. So you're both a world famous diagnostician _and_ a nephrologist-how very _fascinating_!"

House and Anderson exchanged knowing looks that were so quick, it was practically unnoticeable. Peripherally he could see the pediatrician rolling his eyes in disdain and shaking his head slightly.

"Actually, I'm an expert in infectious diseases as well," House told him a little smugly. He quickly appraised Clee up and down. It wasn't overly obvious but he knew that Clee caught it. "It's a coincidence to meet you today, Doctor."

The vascular surgeon leaned forward over the table slightly. "Just call me _Justin_. A coincidence, you say—how so?"

"I was referred to you concerning my case of _Phlegmasia cerulean dolens_," House explained. "I have an appointment booked with you coming up shortly."

"Yes," Clee said, nodding slowly. "I vaguely recall the referral. That must be causing you a great deal of discomfort."

"I'm dealing with it," House answered. "I don't relish the possibility of another infarction, even if I do look damned good with the cane."

"Well then," Clee responded, "We'll just have to make certain that doesn't happen. So tell me, what brings you to our neck of the woods?"

Anderson, who had been watching the exchange disinterestedly, spoke up. "Dr. House has been consulting on Liv's case."

An eyebrow rose on the surgeon's face. "Really? How is she doing? I tried to pop in to see her yesterday but she was sleeping."

"She's suffering from Zollingen-Ellison Syndrome," House told him. "Peptic ulcers caused by duodenal and pancreatic gastrinomas. Also, as with many with ZES, she has a Pituitary adenoma."

"Malignant?" Clee asked, appearing to be genuinely concerned.

Anderson shook his head. "The gastrinomas are benign. Once the adenoma is removed we'll be able to determine if it's cancer. She's undergoing surgery this afternoon to repair one of the ulcers—explaining the GI bleeding— and the removal of the gastrinomas. The adenoma and pancreatic gastrinoma are scheduled for later this week."

'Thank goodness," Clee expressed with a relieved sigh. "I'd hate to lose Liv and to think of those kids losing their mother too? Terrible. Lucky she was able to have _you_ consult on her case. So tell me, how long are you going to be in Philadelphia? Perhaps we could go for a drink before you leave. I'd love to hear about the cases you've handled, what life is like in Princeton."

House held back a snort. "I'm not certain how much longer I'll be around."

"Well, when you know for certain just give me a jingle," the surgeon told him. He grabbed a pen from an inside pocket of his lab coat and a napkin that was on the table and jotted down his name and a number. "We'll arrange a time." He slid the napkin towards House. The diagnostician nodded in response, not touching it.

"Well," Clee said, rising reluctantly from the table. "I have to get back to work. I hope to hear from you soon…?"

"You can call me House," House told him with an amused smirk. "That's what everyone calls me."

"I hope to hear from you soon, _House_," Clee said with a wink. He nodded at Anderson and then sauntered away.

As soon as the surgeon was out of earshot, Anderson grinned, shaking his head. "I'm sorry about that. That's Justin—when he sees what he wants, he just goes for it, and he definitely wants you."

House grunted in reaction; he was about to get up to throw the empty cups away when he saw a hulk of a man heading his way. Anderson noticed that House's attention had been grabbed and turned his head to see what it was.

"Looks like the boss man has found you," Anderson said with a grin. "Another man who relentlessly pursues what he wants. You're just the belle of the ball today, aren't you?"

"Must be the smell of the delousing shampoo," House muttered dryly, causing the pediatrician to snicker.

"I've got work of my own to get back to," Anderson told him, gathering the empty cups as he got up to leave. "Good luck."

"I'm gonna need it," the diagnostician commented grimly, watching the younger doctor throw the garbage away and then depart.

The hulk reached him, looking down at him. "Dr. House, I presume?"

"Who's asking?" was House's cautious question. He wasn't used to looking _up_ to talk to someone.

"Your next employer," Dr. Xander Roth said confidently, extending his hand.


	23. Chapter 23 Part 2 Ch 11

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** No Beta for this so please forgive the mistakes that I missed as I read it through.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Eleven: Tuesday, June 1, 2010; 10:47 A.M.**

House stood up to great the newcomer. Dr. Xander Roth stood a good four inches taller than House's six-feet, two and a half inches and was built like a brick wall. He wore a pricy grey suit with a crisp white dress shirt and bluish-grey tie. On his cuffs were gold cufflinks engraved with what appeared to either be eagles or phoenixes. On his left hand was a think gold wedding band and on his right an onyx and gold signet ring. His watch was Cartier. On his feet were black Italian leather dress shoes. The man dressed powerfully, which matched his build; House imagined the man had to be a body builder and had to have played football in college—no self-respecting coach would have missed a tank like him.

Looking at the huge hand extended to him, House gripped it firmly and briefly in a handshake.

"Dr. Xander Roth, Dr. House. St Luke's Chief Administrator," the hulk told him with a strong voice and gregarious smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I've heard tremendous things about you."

House raised an eyebrow. "You have the advantage," he told him simply, meeting the administrator's piercing gaze.

"Why don't we sit to talk?" Roth suggested, nodding to the table. House nodded and they took seats across from each other. The diagnostician tried not to show his uncertainty with the situation. He had a natural distrust of authority figures stemming from his earliest years. Part of it he knew was in reaction to growing up under his authoritarian father. The rest was his observation that not all leaders deserved to be in their positions and those that did earned, not demanded, the respect that came with the job. A good leader knew how to inspire and utilize his/her employees' skills and talents and delegate authority to those who had shown the aptitude rather than through politics.

"I've been made aware that you're considering developing a department of diagnostic medicine her at St. Luke's," House commented, uncertain exactly what it was he was supposed to say or do under the circumstances.

"Oh, I'm beyond the consideration stage, Doctor," Rust informed him, folding his hands on the surface of the table. "I've already obtained both Board approval and the necessary funding to get it off the ground. I've long admired the system you developed at Princeton-Plainsboro and desire to see a similar system developed and employed here. When Dr. Hutton suggested that you may be open to being wooed to St. Luke's I obviously was quite excited at the prospect."

House decided to cut to the chase so it was clear between the two of them House's position and understanding of Hutton's arrangements with the administrator. He didn't want to start off with any surprises or misunderstandings. "I'm looking for work and a change of venue," he told Roth plainly. "I no longer hold my position at Princeton –Plainsboro due to mental health issues I'm currently receiving treatment for. A year ago I entered detox for a lengthy addiction to the Vicodin I'd been taking for chronic pain associated with an infarction in my leg that I suffered years ago. I've remained opiate-free for over a year now but recently I've suffered from depression and required hospitalization. As a result the Board of Princeton-Plainsboro terminated my employment. In other words, I got canned for going nuts and trying to kill myself. I thought you should be aware of this upfront before we go any further."

Roth nodded and smiled. "I appreciate your candor, Dr. House. It's refreshing this day and age when it seems like lately every person I've interviewed for a position here pads their CV and tries to blow smoke up my ass. I've heard the rumors," Roth told him knowingly. "I have my spies, so to speak, who fill me in on all sorts of things going on in other hospitals. I've already been apprised of your recent hospitalization and the termination at Princeton-Plainsboro. I don't discriminate against people with very real physiological illnesses, Dr. House. The fact that you are undergoing therapy is only a plus in my eyes."

The diagnostician marveled at that revelation. He had expected Roth to immediately lose interest in him as soon as he found out about House's colorful past. Instead, this man wasn't influenced by the fact that House's illness was mental in nature but instead saw it as no different from any other condition. After spending most of his life among people who refused to see past his weaknesses to see his strengths and give him the benefit of the doubt, this was an incredibly refreshing yet disconcerting experience. House figured he would have to get used to the change. He relaxed a little at Roth's response to what he'd told him.

"I've been told I'm too candid," the diagnostician commented, avoiding eye contact with Roth by pretending to take an interest in the activity of the cafeteria at lunchtime. "I tend to offend people that way. In my experience most of my patients lie blatantly or by omission in their medical histories and symptoms. That makes it very difficult for me to do my job. It pisses me off when a patient dies before I can diagnose their condition because they were embarrassed about something and didn't tell me all of the relevant facts. "

"Quite frankly, if you're being prevented from doing your job that way, I think you have every right to get angry. I don't condone violence in my hospital from either side, but sometimes a good raking over the coals is just what the doctor ordered, so to speak.

"I also know that you're notoriously bad for completing your paperwork and charting and you employ methods that are often times considered questionable by those who are more conservatively and traditionally minded. You're extremely hard on your Fellows and other hospital personnel and resent having your decisions second-guessed, particularly by those whose knowledge of the specialty is limited. You hate fund-raising, are a private man and aren't above using manipulation to achieve your agenda. The patient comes before policy and precedent with you and you hate to lose. You often declare war on the nursing staff, have difficulty with punctuality, and are a compulsive prankster. In the past you've single-handedly kept Princeton-Plainsboro's legal department running off their feet, although you've given them a breather this year and like to experiment on patients with unusual and sometimes dangerous procedures and drugs. You distrust authority, have a lousy bed-side manner and are very, very stubborn."

"Please!" House said with mock-modesty, "I'm blushing."

"And yet I still want to hire you," the administrator told him, still smiling. "You want to know why?"

"Because you're a masochist?" House guessed sarcastically.

"Quite possibly," Roth admitted without skipping a beat. "But that's not the reason. I want to hire you Dr. House because in spite of your weaknesses and eccentricities you remain simply the best at what you do in this country and quite arguably the world. The ends don't always justify means, but come damned close to it when it comes to saving a patient's life. I have no illusions. You're not the easiest person to work with, but then again, I'm not Dr. Cuddy and this isn't Princeton-Plainsboro."

House didn't respond; that statement could be taken a number of ways. He searched Roth's face for any indication of duplicity or threat and saw neither. He seemed to mean what he said and say what he meant. House knew he could work with that.

"I'm quite aware of the challenges you had to deal with from the administration and Board in your previous job," Roth continued. "You were underappreciated and underpaid. You were given more restrictions on your budget allotments and the authorization of procedures. You were not shown the respect nor given the authority and responsibility that the other departments and department heads enjoyed. You had to run and get permission from your boss before you could run tests and undertake procedures that often would have been considered routine acceptable elsewhere. You had your decisions questioned regularly by individuals without the same degree of education, ability and experience in diagnostics. Your disability was ignored in terms of the physical restraints it imposes on your ability to undertake certain things like getting moving first thing in the morning and remaining on your feet for extended periods of time. You even had to fight for special parking privileges near the hospital entrance. You were not supported by the hospital when you faced harassment and even physical assault from patients and their families. You were blocked by personal vendettas and resentments on behalf of your colleagues in other departments. The nursing staff was allowed to get away with disrespect and insubordination as well as sloughing off on their duties and response time to your orders.

"You're boss hired a spy, a man with the obvious agenda of usurping your position to watch you and report your every word back to her. She also openly insulted you in front other members of the staff, your patients and their families and friends. She assaulted you by setting up tripwires and allowing her boyfriend to trip you in front of a cafeteria full of witnesses without banning said boyfriend from the hospital-which she would have done with any other member of the public or staff."

House's eyebrows were stuck in a raised position on his forehead and he listened to Roth list off from memory things he shouldn't have had any knowledge of. Did he really have spies staked out at other hospitals or was he a special case? Even more amazing was the fact that his words were actually in defense of the diagnostician or in accusation against those who made his life and job difficult. This was definitely a first for House.

"Did Hutton tell you this stuff?" House demanded, wondering if the psychiatrist had breached confidentiality laws by telling Roth about House's experiences.

"No, she did not," Roth insisted. "All she told me was that she had heard that you may be considering a change of location and position and that I should take this advantage to approach you about heading up the department of Diagnostics here at St. Luke's. She didn't violate HIIPA statutes. What I know I have learned by means of informants, word of mouth, and networking. As I said—I'm a fan, and I've been following your career in great detail for quite some time."

"I have to tell you, Roth," House quipped, "that I'm a creeped out knowing that."

The administrator burst out laughing; it came from deep in his belly and was _loud_. A few heads turned at the sound of it. As he was laughing, House couldn't help but smile a little at how infectious it was. He was about to comment on it when he looked up to see Wilson standing at the entrance of the cafeteria with another man about Wilson's age carrying an expensive-looking briefcase. The oncologist was searching the faces in the room for House's.

"So, Dr. House? Are you interested?" Roth asked once his laughter had stopped.

House glanced back to Wilson for a second and hesitated. He then looked back at the hulk of a man before him and nodded affirmatively.

"Yes, I am," he told the administrator. "But I'm meeting a friend and a lawyer and I see that they've arrived. Can we talk more about later today?"

"Of course," Roth told him agreeably. "I'll have my assistant open a block of time after lunch, say one-thirty?"

House saw that Wilson had spoted him and nodded at the oncologist before returning his attention to his future employer.

"Great," he agreed.

Roth stood up and House followed. The administrator shook House's hand again. "I'll see you then, Dr. House."

Nodding in affirmation, House saw Wilson and the lawyer head in his direction as Roth made his leave, passing them along the way. Wilson's eyes followed Roth curiously for a few moments and by the look on his face House knew he would likely be asked a lot of questions about it before the day was through.

Wilson looked great as always, his thick brown hair perfectly coiffed without looking like he fussed with it, even though House knew that he had. He wore his charcoal-grey suit with a light blue dress shirt and an atrocious blue and green tie that looked like a Smurf had exploded on a golf course. _Where the hell does he find those god-awful ties, anyway?_ House wondered. House could stare at him for hours and never grow bored. Wilson's chocolate brown eyes met House's gaze fondly and the diagnostician felt his heart begin to beat faster. He doubted there would ever be a day in which looking at Wilson failed to affect him that way.

The man with him looked to be in his mid-forties with sandy hair cut short and neat and washed out blue eyes. He was of medium build, the same height as Wilson but a little bit heavier. He wore a sharp navy dress jacket with white shirt and tie which matched the jacket; the dress pants were tan. His facial features reminded House of a Whippet and his free hand patted his jacket pocket to the rhythm of some silent Latin song.

"Hey," Wilson said, "How's it going?"

"Life's a parade," House replied drily, "and I'm the guy who cleans up after the horses."

The stranger smirked and Wilson set to the introductions. "House, this is Vince Elliott, Attorney At Law. He's the civil rights attorney I spoke to you about the other day. Vince, this is Dr. Gregory House."

Elliott smiled pleasantly and went to shake House's hand but House declined; he had a rule—never trust lawyers. He had a problem with individuals who made obscene amounts of money twisting the truth and withholding information that could solve a crime because their client had the right to confidentiality. While House had loved Stacy he had hated what she did for a living. Her career choice had trained her in double-speak, duplicity and legal loopholes to everything; she had employed all three when she had conspired with Cuddy to wait until he was unconscious to go against his wishes and butcher up his thigh, leaving him with his disability and constant chronic pain.

"Uh," Wilson said, breaking the uncomfortable moment, "why don't we sit down and get started?"

"Absolutely," Elliott agreed enthusiastically. House glared at him; he hadn't been around the man for two minutes and he didn't like him. He tried to remind himself that he didn't have to _like_ him; he just had to _tolerate _him long enough to see the lawsuit through to its conclusion. The three men sat down; Wilson took the seat next to House and the lawyer sat opposite them. He opened his briefcase and took out a legal pad and a pen.

"Dr. House, James gave me a little background on the issue you have with Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital and Dr. Lisa Cuddy," Elliott told him, "but I'd like to hear it from you in your own words. I understand that you wish to file a wrongful termination suit against PPTH and Cuddy. Is that right?"

House glanced over at Wilson; the suggestion had been his friends and Hutton's and he was still uncertain whether he wanted to go ahead with it. He knew that these kind of things often brought unwanted public scrutiny on the lives of the major players involved. House wasn't certain he wanted his personal business made public knowledge, and he didn't want Wilson to end up being drawn into the mire with him. Then again, after hearing what his therapist had told him earlier about how Cuddy and the hospital had used him and taken advantage of him for so many years, he wanted some kind of vindication and retribution. There was no reason why the same injustice done to him couldn't be done to some other employee in the future unless someone brought it out of the private board room and into the light.

"Yes," House told him with a nod. "What do you want to know?"

"Just recount to me in your own words what happened that led up to the termination and then the events surrounding the actual termination to the best of your ability. It will help me get an idea of exactly what we're looking at in terms of how the law applies to your particular situation. I guess I should make clear that this is just an informal meeting to become acquainted and set things in motion. We'll have to meet again soon to go over the paperwork and other particulars. Sound alright?"

"Yes," Wilson spoke up and House nodded in affirmation.

"Good," Elliott said with a small smile. He reached into his briefcase again and pulled out a personal digital voice recorder and set it on the table between them. "Nothing you say here will go any further than the three of us. This recording is simply for me so I can go back through what you've said to make certain that my notes are accurate. The recording will be permanently deleted and is privileged information protected by the lawyer/client confidentiality rights. Depositions under oath will take place at another time."

So House began to relate a brief history of his interactions with Cuddy from the time they first met at Michigan State to when Cuddy hired him after he was fired from his previous job and deemed 'unemployable'.

"At the time I was," House admitted, glancing sideways at Wilson from time to time. "It was post-infarction and I was a miserable, irascible son of a bitch, nothing like the suave, sophisticated professional loved by all you see before you today." He finished that last part with light sarcasm. "I think she hired me because she knew I was one of the best diagnosticians in this country—"

"_The_ best," Wilson interrupted.

"—and also out of guilt about what happened to my leg. I was in no position to allow pride to stand in the way of taking the job." House continued to describe working at PPTH under Cuddy's leadership. He mentioned the fact that he was deprived of the same respect and autonomy that other department heads enjoyed and how his decisions were constantly questioned and often overruled by an inferior doctor with no training or experience in the area of diagnostic medicine. He gave a few examples of what he was talking about and then related the events surrounding Vogler and Tritter. House didn't fail to relate the mistakes, poor decisions, crimes and misdemeanors he'd committed during those events as well, including his growing dependency on the Vicodin and alcohol to dull his persistent, often extreme chronic pain. He also stated that the pain he felt was real with a real physical source that was exacerbated by stress and depression, not caused by it. Wilson listened to this quietly, not even moving; the diagnostician was hoping his best friend was taking mental notes. Cuddy hadn't been the only one to disbelieve him and accuse him of jonesing for a 'fix' instead of relief from his pain.

House described the mixed sexual signals, the games that threw him off stride and left him wondering where the hell he stood with Cuddy relationally and professionally. He related the events following Wilson's return to PPTH and House's life following Amber's death, including the continued interference from Cuddy and her so-called pranks like setting up the trip wire for the 'cripple' to trip over and be humiliated by. He described his own spiral into excessive drug use that led to his hallucinations and breakdown and wound him up at Mayfield. He went into his detox and the struggle to pull his life back together, to reclaim his job and resurrect his career as well as a possible relationship with his boss.

"She wouldn't give me a chance to prove myself, that I really was different and working hard to heal and better myself," House explained to Elliott, toying with the edge of the napkin resting on the table in front on him. "The State medical board had approved the reinstatement of my license on the provision that I remain drug-free and continue with therapy. They only required a random drug test twice a year. That wasn't good enough for Cuddy, who threw drug-tests at me anytime she damned well felt like it. She exhibited no trust in me and refused to acknowledge the positive changes in me. If I refused a drug test she told me I'd be terminated from my position. I guess I earned a lot of her distrust, but I would have appreciated the benefit of the doubt."

House continued to describe the work and personal relationship with Cuddy as the year progressed, mentioning the conference and Lucas and how Cuddy had disclosed to him information that was private and embarrassing for him, things he had done while sick and not responsible for. He described Lucas's 'pranking' and the consequences, including tens of thousands of dollars in property damage and personal injury. This was when Wilson spoke up again.

"Lucas's little prank with the safety bar in the bathroom could have killed House," the oncologist stressed. "If his head had hit the porcelain tub he could have sustain serious head injuries; he could have passed out and drowned in the tub before I got home to find him. Then the ass had the audacity to purposefully trip House in the cafeteria which sent him flying face first to the floor. House didn't complain but I noticed the way he winced more when he walked or moved suddenly following it. Lucas even confessed to all of the pranks in front of a cafeteria full of witnesses under the glare of security cameras recording the entire thing. Yet nothing was done by Cuddy and the hospital. No charges were laid against Lucas, he was not banned from the hospital, and no concern was shown for House at all."

"I didn't report it," House reminded Wilson quickly.

"Why not?" Elliott asked, frowning quizzically. "You were assaulted by the man in front of witnesses and recorded on camera. You had every right to file criminal charges both for the physical injuries and the property damage. That man should have been banned from the hospital permanently for physically harming one of its senior doctors."

"I didn't want to hurt Cuddy," House answered. "Our friendship was on the rocks and I didn't want it to erode any further that it already had. She would have accused me of lying or making a big deal out of it in an attempt to interfere in her relationship with Lucas and exact revenge. I felt it was better to do nothing and let it slide."

Elliott shook his head in dismay. "Regardless," he insisted, "those security logs are supposed to be reviewed regularly and any anomalies reported to the administration a.s.a.p. I'll bet you complaints were filed by witnesses as well. There's no way Dr. Cuddy didn't know about the incident and she did nothing, allowing a crime to go unreported to the police. She covered up the assault to protect her lover."

"I doubt anyone came to my defense," House retorted ruefully, shaking his head. "I'm not the most popular person at PPTH."

"Perhaps not," the lawyer allowed, "but not reporting a crime that one has witnessed is also a crime and I'm certain there were witnesses who didn't want to end up in legal trouble for not saying anything. Tell me about the events that led up to the actual termination."

House related the growing stress he was under, including the change of living arrangements during this time. He avoided Wilson's gaze but out of the corner of his eye he could see the oncologist looking incredibly guilty. House didn't care; the younger doctor deserved to feel some guilt over the way he'd treated the diagnostician because of Sam. He went on to describe his deepening depression and increasing pain due to the embolism at the iliac vein.

"Wait a minute!" Wilson exclaimed in surprise, jumping in suddenly. He looked at House directly, his face betraying the shock and concern he was experiencing. "Embolism? What embolism? You've never told me about that? How serious is it?"

Sighing, House lowered his head a moment and closed his eyes. He wished he hadn't brought that up. He knew that Wilson wouldn't let the matter drop now, however. House looked back up at his best friend with a grim expression on his face.

"Shortly before the lockdown took place, I started to feel severe pain radiating from my leg into my groin and lower abdomen. I knew what it had to be but I didn't want to admit to myself that it was another DVT that had cast off an clot, leading to _Phlegmasia cerulean dolens. _The pain has gotten increasingly worse and it's an aneurysm has formed as a result. Ibuprofen doesn't even touch the pain I've been experiencing on top of the normal leg pain. I didn't see a doctor about it until after I was admitted to Mayfield. I have an upcoming appointment with a vascular surgeon here at St. Luke's concerning the repair before more emboli break off and end up in my lungs or the aneurysm ruptures."

"Why didn't you tell me about the pain when it started?" the oncologist demanded softly, both worried and hurt.

"Can we talk about this later?" House muttered to him, uncomfortable about discussing his medical issues in front of the lawyer.

"You're just trying to avoid the subject hoping that I'll forget to ask later," Wilson accused. "It's not going to work. I'm not going to drop this."

"Fine," House said tersely, glaring. "We'll talk about it later _today_."

Wilson opened his mouth to object but apparently decided it was better not to and remained silent. Elliott had been listening with interest but quickly turned the conversation back to House's termination and lawsuit.

"Please go on with your account," the lawyer told him mildly.

House continued, talking about the crane disaster and Hannah and then returning to his apartment in physical agony from crawling around in the rubble all day as well as the emotional desperation he'd felt. He hated discussing his personal life and his emotions but knew it was necessary so sucked it up and talked. He related how he'd felt he had no one to turn to and the physical pain had been so bad that he was desperate for relief, so he'd located the last of his stashed Vicodin. Once he'd had the Vicodin in his hand he'd been tempted to take an overdose to end all of the pain for good and then decided to slit his wrists and arms with a shard of mirror glass instead. He'd tried to go for his carotid but had passed out before he could.

Continuing on, purposefully not looking at Wilson, he described what had happened at PPTH including the neglect he'd experienced in the psych ward there, and his committal to Mayfield. After that he'd been notified of the termination by Wilson and had discussed with his therapists and the oncologist about the lawsuit. House admitted he'd been having second thoughts until today and now he was more certain than ever that he wanted to go ahead with it.

"Why is that?" Elliott inquired, raising an eyebrow and twirling his pen around absently in his hand.

House recounted what Hutton had told him about Roth and his spies and the fact that for years Cuddy had been telling him he was unemployable anywhere else and underpaying him while using him as a selling feature for the hospital by emphasizing that he was the best, a boon to the hospital, and much sought after by other hospitals.

"Also," he added, "any requests by medical conferences requesting him to speak that went to Cuddy instead of directly to me were never reported to me. She replied back to the organizers posing as me, declining the invitations. I don't normally accept such invitations, but that decision ought to be mine to make, not hers. She's been deceiving me about many things over the years."

The lawyer was scribbling frantically on his legal pad. "Wow. Dr. House, you definitely have grounds here for a suit. I think I am greatly underestimating when I say you could seek rewards in the high six digit and low seven digit range. In fact it's possible it could go as high as ten million."

Nodding disinterestedly House said, "I'm not so much concerned about the money as I am seeing Cuddy and the Board sternly rebuked and penalized for the way they've made my career extremely difficult and manipulated me to keep me from seeking employment elsewhere. Perhaps they won't do the same things to another idiot who makes the mistake of trusting them."

Elliott nodded in understanding and agreement. "Well, I think I have everything I need to know for now. We should book another appointment to go more deeply in depth with about law, the technicalities and the paperwork. I don't know how it is for you doctors but lawyers spend way too much time on paperwork."

"Most of us have more than our fair share," Wilson told him with a smile, looking sideways at the diagnostician, "but some of us get our fellows to do it for us."

"Shame on you, Wilson!" House deflected quickly. "That's an abuse of your employees!"

Chuckling, the lawyer shut off his recorder and packed up his briefcase. He rose from the table as did the two doctors. They shook hands—including a reluctant House this time. Elliott said he would call Wilson about the next meeting and then left. Wilson turned to House, scowling slightly.

_Here we go_, House groaned silently to himself.

"I want some explanations now," Wilson told him firmly, hands moving to his hips.

"Fine," House agreed with a nod. "After lunch. I'm buying."

Wilson did a double-take, certain he hadn't heard correctly. "_You're _buying?" He began to search House's head for something. "I don't see it."

"See what?" the older man said, frowning.

"The lobotomy scar," the younger replied with a smirk. House tried to keep a straight face and throw back a smart remark but he couldn't, giving Wilson a grin instead.

"Shut up," he muttered, picking up the napkin on the table, folding it and putting it into his jeans pocket. "Let's get in line."

They went through the line with their trays, received their orders and went to the cashier to pay. House pulled out a courtesy card and handed it to the worker who scanned it and handed it back to him. He led the way to a table and took a seat with Wilson in tow.

"A VIP courtesy card?" Wilson inquired curiously.

"This hospital appreciates my genius," House told him. "Since I was consulting on Hutton's case, Anderson gave me this. Like I'm going to turn down free food! Enjoy that meal, it's the last one I'm buying for you."

"You mean the hospital is buying," Wilson corrected dryly as he raised a French fry to his mouth.

"A mere technicality," House replied with a shrug, biting into his hamburger.

"So," The oncologist asked after swallowing, "who's Justin?"

House froze, stopping his chewing for a moment, and then began to move again a little more cautiously. He tried to shrug nonchalantly, hoping that it had worked. "A doctor here at St. Luke's. Anderson's friend."

"And you're already on a first name basis?" There was a slight edge to Wilson's voice but he behaved as if there were nothing wrong.

House swallowed, washing his food down with his soda. He knew that tone and knew he had to proceed with caution. He shrugged again. "He wrote the number down, not me. He's the vascular surgeon I mentioned."

"Oh," the other man acknowledged with a nod. "About that…."

Sighing, the diagnostician set his burger down. "Look, I didn't tell you when the pain started because…well, you seemed preoccupied and I didn't want to concern you over something that could have been nothing. Later you were with Sam every moment you weren't working so I didn't see the point. You obviously weren't interested in hearing about my issues. I only found out the cause of the pain since my return to Mayfield."

"So why didn't you call me as soon as you knew?" he was asked. "Didn't you think I'd want to know?"

It was a set-up question, a specialty of his friend's, and House knew that no matter how he answered it he was setting himself up for a 'discussion' and perhaps a lecture. So he figured he might as well be blunt and honest. "I wasn't sure. I figured you might doubt me or somehow twist it around as being psychosomatic or some kind of Conversion disorder."

Wilson was silent for a moment or two, his eyes unreadable as her stared at the older man. He then lowered his eyes in shame.

"I'm sorry, House," he apologized stiffly.

House didn't fully believe him but didn't say so. They ate in silence for a few minutes. There was a tension in the air between them that bothered House more than he cared to admit. He wished they could go back to the days when they could sit in a comfortable silence for hours and practically read each other's minds just by the way one of them raised an eyebrow, smiled slightly, or shifted their body in his seat. That had been lost with Amber's death. They had only begun to feel comfortable around each other again when House had his breakdown. After his return from Mayfield things seemed to have changed. At first it had been awkward between them but that had quickly changed to the point where they were closer and more in sync than ever before. That's when Sam had shown her face and pissed on his parade. Their estrangement had returned as the harpy had done everything she could to destroy their friendship.

He had to wonder if she hadn't, ultimately, succeeded at that.

"When do you see _Justin_ again about surgery?" Wilson asked, breaking the silence. He kept his eyes on his plate as he spoke.

It puzzled House that Wilson would be reacting to a simple name and phone number until it dawned on him that the oncologist might possibly be jealous and worried that he was hooking up with someone else while Wilson was back in Princeton blissfully unaware. Suddenly House found himself amused by it and wondered how he could use this to mess with his best friends head just like the good ol' days.

"This Thursday morning," House told him matter-of-factly. "Eleven-thirty, if I recall correctly. We'll go over the scans and the surgical procedure as well as post-operative follow up and book an OR date."

Wilson nodded, then looked House in the eyes. "So, if I hadn't called you on this today would you have told me about the surgery before you had it? Or would you have kept me in the dark?"

The older man reached across the table suddenly and grasped one of Wilson's hands. "I was going to tell you before the surgery took place, Wilson."

After a pause the younger man asked, "Do you want be to be here, for the surgery that is?"

House nodded and smiled slightly. He gave Wilson's hand a little squeeze.

"Then I'll be here for it," Wilson told him simply, smiling back fondly. Then he asked, "Will you be remaining in Mayfield for your recovery?"

House's heart felt like it was seizing in his chest. This was it. This was his opportunity to be honest with his best friend and would-be lover about his early release from the psychiatric hospital and his move to the Philadelphia area. He had no idea how to begin and he was afraid to find out how the oncologist was going to take the news. House's mouth felt as if it was filled with cotton batting. It had to be done. He paled several shades and opened his mouth several times to speak but was unable to find his voice.

"House?" Wilson said, concerned, scrutinizing him as if trying to determine if his friend was ill and needed medical intervention. "What's wrong?"

"Wilson, I have something to tell you," House whispered in dread, "and you're not going to like it."

**(~*~)**


	24. Chapter 24 Part 2 Ch 12

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** No Beta for this so please forgive the mistakes that I missed as I read it through.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **T** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Twelve: Tuesday, June 1, 2010; 12:39 P.M**

James Wilson looked at his best friend with a combination of curiosity and trepidation. House waited breathlessly for Wilson to at least acknowledge what he had said. It came after a nerve racking few moments of silence.

"Alright," the oncologist said, nodding slowly. "Maybe we should go somewhere a little less public?"

House nodded in agreement. They rose from the table and dumped their trays. He remembered seeing the chapel not far from the cafeteria and headed in that direction with Wilson following. They didn't speak until they were inside the empty ecumenical room of prayer.

"The chapel?" Wilson asked him, questioning the location House had chosen.

Shrugging, House took a seat in a pew and gestured for Wilson to join him. "It's quiet and nobody ever comes in here anymore. Besides, it's bad luck to murder someone in a house of God, isn't it?"

"You don't believe in God," the younger man reminded him.

House sighed, having no smart comeback to offer. He felt nauseous. If Wilson reacted very negatively to what he was about to tell him, he could lose his best friend permanently. That was a nightmare that House didn't want to live out while awake.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly in an effort to calm his nerves, House forced himself to meet Wilson's eyes. "I don't really know how to tell you this. Shit! This isn't easy for me."

Wilson took House's hand and squeezed it gently. With his other hand he cupped the diagnostician's cheek and caressed his cheekbone with his thumb. "Just tell me. Whatever it is can't be that bad, can it?"

Closing his eyes House pressed his face into Wilson's hand, relishing the touch. He had dreamt countless times over the years that someday he would be the recipient of such tenderness from the oncologist. Here it was, and House couldn't fully enjoy it due to the gravity of what he had to say. God, he hoped he wouldn't lose this, that he wouldn't lose this man before him who was the heart beating in his chest!

House didn't see Wilson lean in to kiss him softly, lovingly on the lips. He felt an immediate jolt of excitement in his nether region but that wasn't all. As he returned the kiss and it deepened between them House was drawn helplessly into Wilson, his soul becoming the possession of the other man. He opened his eyes to look into the oncologist's, falling into their warm depths. He never wanted this to end, but like all good things, it did. Wilson withdrew and rested his forehead against House's.

"You have no idea how long I've waited for that," the older man murmured.

"I'm sorry I didn't figure things out sooner," Wilson admitted. "But at least we have the present and the future to look forward to."

"I hope so," House told him earnestly, closing his eyes. His body was trembling as he feared Wilson's reaction to his news. Fleetingly he thought about waiting for a better moment, a better place…but he knew there would never be the perfect time or location, so he might as well tell him now and get it over with.

Wilson must have sensed House's nervousness and kissed his mouth tenderly again for a second. "Talk to me," he told the diagnostician quietly.

House nodded, and slowly pulled away from his best friend's touch completely. It was time.

"Following my surgery and discharge from Mayfield," he said carefully, "I won't be returning to Princeton."

Wilson stared at him in confusion. "What do you mean? Are you going to be staying at St. Luke's during your recovery?"

"No," the diagnostician answered cautiously. His mouth went dry. "I won't be recuperating at Mayfield, either."

"A rehabilitation hospital then?" Wilson offered.

"I'll be recovering at home." House replied.

"But I thought you just said you weren't coming back to Princeton," the younger said, shaking his head. "House, tell me what's going on."

"Wilson," House said, trying again, "I'm receiving an early discharge from Mayfield but I have to enter an outpatient program here at St. Luke's. It's a thirty day program, five days a week. Once I've completed it, I'll be eligible to have my license in New Jersey reactivated and to receive a license from the state of Pennsylvania to practice medicine here."

"I don't understand," Wilson replied, shaking his head. "What do you need with a license from Pennsylvania?"

Frustrated House released a small growl from his throat. Was he trying to be this obtuse or was he really not getting it? Swallowing hard, House blurted, "Because I'm going to be working here at St. Luke's. I'm moving here, most likely for good." His blue eyes watched his friend closely for an indication of what was going on in his head upon hearing this revelation. It felt like his heart had stopped beating and he had stopped breathing.

For a moment or two Wilson just looked at him with a confused expression, but slowly that changed to a look of realization and hurt as it became clear to him exactly what it was House was telling him.

Shaking his head slowly, Wilson responded, "What do you mean you're moving to Philadelphia and going to be working here? You…you were supposed to be returning to Princeton and moving back into the loft with _me_." Wilson's face dropped. "Don't you want to come back to me? Or have you decided that you don't want a relationship with me after all? You're breaking up with me before we've even begun, aren't you?"

"No," House insisted, looking at Wilson with pleading eyes. "Wilson this has nothing to do with my not wanting to be with you. I do. I want to spend the rest of my life with you…but I have nothing left in Princeton to return to. I don't even have a job there anymore."

"_I'm_ there," Wilson told him, hurt beginning to share his heart with anger. "You have me. Isn't that enough?"

House couldn't believe he was actually going to say what he said next. "No. It's not."

Wilson jumped to his feet and left the pew. He began to pace the aisle, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand. "Why not? Don't you love me anymore?"

"Wilson," House began but the oncologist wouldn't give him an opportunity to explain.

"You did love me, I know you did. When did that stop? I…House, I don't know what it is that I've done, but don't give up on me now! You don't have a job there _yet_. You'll find one. You don't have to worry about the money, I have plenty. I _love_ you, damn it! Doesn't that count for anything? I know I was a jerk with what happened with Sam. I screwed up, I'm sorry. I'm trying to make that up to you—just give me a chance!"

"This isn't about me not loving you anymore and it's not about Sam either. The time I spent in Princeton was a period of my life that was characterized by a broken, destructive existence. If I go back, that's what I go back to. Now that I no longer work at PPTH, it's time for me to leave the bad behind and move on, start fresh somewhere else and hopefully begin a new, happier, healthier phase of my life," House declared. "You are the _only_ light left for me in that black hole of a place. I'm not leaving _you_—I mean, I don't want to do that. I have to move away from there, Wilson! I've been stuck in my own private hell for far too long and as long as I stay in Princeton I will be constantly reminded of what a failure I was there. I'll fall back into old habits, I may even go on another spree of self-destructive behavior.

"I _need_ to do this-I need to do this for me and my sanity. I have to start taking care of myself and find peace with myself for the first time in my life! But I don't want to leave you behind! I was hoping…damn it, I was hoping that you would come with me to Philadelphia. It could be a new start for both of us!"

Wilson stopped his pacing to glare angrily at the diagnostician. "I can't just up and move with you at the drop of a hat! I have my job at PPTH. I own a new condo. I have patients who rely on me, who need me—"

"_I_ need you," House yelled, cutting him off. "You said yourself that things at PPTH are falling apart and you don't want to work for Cuddy anymore! You were preparing your CV and putting out feelers. Why not inquire around Philly? With your reputation and experience you will have very little difficulty getting hired on somewhere in this region. We can find our own place here together. As for your patients—they can adjust to a new oncologist. It doesn't have to be immediately, either—you could slowly close things out in Princeton and then join me later. Until then we could see each other on the weekends until all of the loose ends are taken care of. Jimmy…this can work. We can still be together.

"I've been offered the position of Chief of Diagnostics here at St. Luke's'; all I have to do is say yes. I'll have say in building the new department from the bottom up. I have a house lined up. I'm actually meeting new people who don't hate me the moment they speak to me. I'm appreciated here. Do you know how long it's been since I was last wanted and appreciated anywhere? I can't throw this opportunity away to become a kept man with no career prospects and no dignity. I need this, Jimmy and I need _you_. Don't ask me to leave a new beginning to return to a place where I don't belong anymore."

"You've got everything in place," the oncologist said incredulously. "A job, a place to stay, a medical license, and new friends like—like _Justin, _House? And Anderson and Hutton? How long have you been planning this? Hutton's the one behind all of this, isn't she? She's used her position as your therapist to brainwash you!"

"'Brainwash me'?" House echoed sardonically. "Wilson, you've been watching too much TV!"

Wilson ignored his comment. "You didn't once think about consulting me in all of this. It didn't even occur to you to find out what I wanted before you began this move, did it? I like Princeton, and I can ride out this insanity with Cuddy. You have everything taken care of and you're all set. You don't need me."

"I just told you that I do," House argued, growling in frustration. "I want you, Jimmy, but I won't go back. And Hutton didn't force this decision on me. _I_ made it. This is my sanity and _survival_ at stake. If I return to Princeton I'm returning to die. If you won't do this for me, then…then I guess there is no us after all." He rose from the pew and made his way to the aisle to meet Wilson face to face. "I waited years for you to love me and put me first for once. I suffered through your women time and time again. I've always been there for you. You can't say the same thing. It's _my_ turn to be selfish. It's _your_ move, Wilson. _You_ decide: me…or Princeton? You can't have both."

Wilson stared at the floor for the longest time. "Give me time to think about it."

"_Think_ about it?" House echoed in disbelief. "What is there to think about? You choose me, we move together to Philadelphia and live happily ever _fucking_ after! End of story. It's simple!"

House saw Wilson set his jaw and square his shoulders. That wasn't good; not at all.

"No," was Wilson's answer. It echoed in the near empty chapel and reverberated in cold finality. Without another word Wilson stalked out of the chapel. House followed him as far as the corridor and stood there watching the all too familiar sight of Wilson's back getting increasingly smaller as walked away from the diagnostician…again.

House had the nearly overpowering urge to shout out to him and cry uncle once again. They were constantly wrestling with each other and the diagnostician usually allowed himself to be pinned. Well, not this time. This time he came out on top.

"I love you," House whispered to his departing friend.

**Tuesday, June 1, 2010; 1:04 P.M.**

When House arrived at Hutton's room he found a nurse preparing to take her down to pre-op; her surgery wasn't for another hour but it was common practice to take the patient early to prepare her for what was about to occur and begin the process of sedation. What the psychiatrist was about to undergo was a glorified upper GI endoscopy, but because of the length of time it would take to complete and the possibility of pain involved as well as complications being a possibility, Hutton was likely to be heavily sedated, perhaps even involving general anesthesia.

The psychiatrist smiled when she saw House and gestured for him to come closer. He complied and tried to smile but it appeared more like a grimace. She saw tremendous sadness in his eyes and in the droop of his shoulders and could tell he was making a concerted effort not to let her see it. What had happened? When he'd left her room earlier, he'd actually been on the hopeful side; now he looked devastated.

"What happened?" She demanded gently of him. "Talk to me."

He shook his head. "Nothing," he told her, his voice sounding strained.

"Bullshit," she declared bluntly. "Something has gone very wrong. Don't try to lie to me. What is it?"

House simply shook his head and then did something unexpected; he leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on her forehead.

"What was _that_ for?" she asked apprehensively.

He shrugged and then cleared his throat before answering, "Just for being there for me."

The nurse was joined by an orderly at that point, and together they transferred her to a stretcher.

"House, I'm getting worried," Hutton told him seriously. "You're not okay, are you?"

The staffers began to push Hutton's bed out of the room, allowing House to avoid answering. She twisted to meet his gaze and didn't like what she saw.

"Find Nolan!" she told him firmly. "He's in my office making some calls. House, go find him and talk to him _now_!" She saw him stand in the doorway of her room, not moving. She grew frustrated and pounded her mattress with her fists when they pushed the bed around a corner and she lost sight of her patient.

"Calm down, Dr. Hutton," the nurse chided gently. "You mustn't upset yourself now."

"Listen to me," Hutton told her. "Right now—page Dr. Nolan. Tell him that House may be in trouble. Do it!"

"As soon as we get to pre-op," the nurse soothed almost condescendingly.

"No!" Hutton shouted, catching the attention of people they passed them on their way to the OR. She grabbed a handful of the nurse's scrub top and pulled her down until their faces were two inches apart. The stretcher came to a halt. "_Now_! If you don't, and anything happens to that man I will hold you personally responsible and see to it you're fired so fast your head will spin! Now get your ass to a phone and page Dr. Nolan now!"

Releasing the scrub top, Hutton gave the nurse a death glare and without any further delay she nodded and left the orderly to push the stretcher alone as she ran to the nearest nursing station.

"That was kick-ass," the twenty-year-old orderly told her, nodding approvingly. "Totally hardcore!"

Hutton ignored him and laid back, trying to relax. _Nolan will understand the page_, she told herself. _He'll find House and make certain he's safe. He'll get him to talk. I could be overreacting._ She closed her eyes and took some deep breaths. They were going to have to double her dose of sedation to overcome the anxiety that threatened to overwhelm her.

**(~*~)**

Nolan was just hanging up the phone when House stepped into Hutton's office sans knocking. The senior psychiatrist looked up suddenly to look at him, a concerned frown on his brow. House shut the door behind him, went to the overstuffed chaise lounge and sat down, laying his cane down on the floor beside him. He leaned against the backrest and closed his eyes. A sigh escaped his mouth.

"I was just paged," Nolan told him, walking over to the lounger, pulling up an armchair and sitting down. "It concerned you. Liv was concerned that you may be in trouble. Care to explain to me what's going on?"

House groaned so quietly it was almost inaudible. "I had a run in with Wilson."

"What?—here?" Nolan reacted, confused. "What was James doing in Philly?"

"He and a civil attorney met with me to discuss the lawsuit I'm filing against Princeton-Plainsboro," the patient answered, covering his eyes with an arm. "He knew I was going to be here and the lawyer was in Philadelphia on business. After the lawyer left Wilson and I had a…conversation."

Leaning back in his chair, Nolan rested the ankle of one leg on the knee of the other. "I see. May I ask what your conversation was about?"

"That's why I'm here," House replied sarcastically. "Actually, I'm here because Hutton ordered me to find you, not because I really want to talk to you—but you're better than nothing and the other alternative I was considering was to leave the hospital and find the nearest bar, where I would proceed to drink myself blotto."

Smiling slightly Nolan said, "You made a wise decision."

House released another sigh, lowered his arm from his eyes and sat up slowly to face the other man. "Wilson happened to hear that I have an aneurism in my groin caused by an embolism and how I'm having surgery to repair it. He was upset that I hadn't told him sooner. I didn't want to argue about it in public so we went to the chapel to talk. Long story short, I ended up telling him that I wasn't returning to Princeton because I was moving to Philadelphia, that I was going to be attending an outpatient program here and then begin a new job at St. Luke's. He didn't take it well. I asked him to move here with me. I gave him an ultimatum: choose me or choose Princeton, because he couldn't have both. I tried to explain that I would not be safe if I returned to Princeton and that I needed to move on to a new phase of my life. In spite of what I had to say, he chose Princeton." House was leaning forward on the chaise and he stared down at the oriental area rug under his feet. He had to swallow hard to keep the emotions from taking over again.

Nolan was quiet for a moment. "Perhaps he needs time to think."

"That's what _he_ said," House sneered angrily and looked up at the psychiatrist with flaring eyes. "What is there to think about? Either he loves me, or he doesn't. Either he wants to be with me, or he doesn't. I waited for him for years, and I always chose him first. I've always been there for him when it mattered the most. I've waited out his women and the way he pushed me away with each one. I was there to take him in when his marriages failed. He can't sacrifice what he wants just once for me?

"This is the first time I've asked him to make a change this significant for me, for my needs. Any of the times before he was there to pick me up or look out for me he did on his own—I never asked for it. I've risked my goddamned life to save his bitch of a girlfriend just so that he could be happy with _her_—and not with _me_! Can't he just this once consider my need to start over somewhere else for my sanity and sacrifice for me? Time to think? Damn it, he's had over a decade—since Stacy left—to think. I don't owe him one more fucking minute!" House's voice cracked and he returned his gaze to the floor again to hide the tears in his eyes from Nolan. House feigned pinching the bridge of his nose to wipe away the moisture in his eyes.

"What are you feeling?" Nolan asked him quietly.

"I'm worthless," House replied, his voice gravelly and deep.

"That's an opinion, not an emotion," the psychiatrist told him. "Besides, you don't really believe that."

"Shut up, Nolan. What the fuck do you know?"

"I know that you don't really believe that you're worthless, and I can prove it," Nolan told him plainly.

House looked back up at the therapist, glowering at him. He hated this guy and he had no idea why he'd listened to Hutton and came to see him. He had the audacity to tell him what he believed and what he didn't? What the hell did he know?

"Fuck you," House growled at him.

"You stood up for yourself with James," Nolan went on, ignoring the obscenity directed at him. "You chose to do what was right and healthy for you rather than giving in and returning to Princeton. You made an informed, intelligent choice to take care of yourself and presented him with the option to support you in that or not, and when he chose not to you didn't go running after him and give in. Only someone who believes that there is something about himself worth taking care of and standing up for would do what you did. Ergo, you know you're not worthless."

"I listened to my gut, like you and Hutton told me to and as a result I lost someone I've loved for years," House exclaimed. "He's the most important person in my life and I just pushed him away!"

Nolan shook his head. "No, Greg. You didn't push him away—you asked him to _come_. He wasn't forced to leave; he _chose_ to walk away."

House looked at him incredulously, "Are you saying that this is entirely his fault?"

"It's not a matter of blame or fault," the psychiatrist explained. "You both had a choice and you both made your choices. It just didn't turn out the way you wanted it to. It sucks. It hurts. Life is a bitch. You're angry and resentful, and that's neither right nor wrong. What I'm telling you is that this is not something you've done wrong and need to feel guilty about. You did what you had to do for you—and quite frankly, it's the biggest indication of improvement I've seen in you in months."

"I burned the bridge," House argued, ignoring the back-handed compliment and remaining unwilling to accept that he was innocent of being an ass and a jerk in all of this.

"It's not burning," Nolan told him, smiling encouragingly. "You put up a toll booth, James chose not to pay the toll, but the bridge is still there. Greg, if the roles had been reversed and James was the one who had been as faithful to and patient with you as you have been and you were the one asked to make the sacrifice just this one time, would you have chosen him or Princeton?"

"Him," House answered honestly without hesitation. There was absolutely no doubt about it.

Nodding, Nolan said, "So either way, you would want James with you—how can you possibly be guilty of pushing him away? You're a logical man. Work it out."

For a few minutes House said nothing. He knew that Nolan was right. He hadn't pushed Wilson away from him; Wilson chose to walk away. Knowing that, however, didn't make the pain in his chest go away. It wouldn't keep him company nor hold him close at night. What was the point of being sane and starting anew if he was starting out miserable and alone? The diagnostician asked Nolan just that.

"You can focus on what you don't have, or you put your eyes on what you have gained and will continue to gain," was the answer. "Whether or not you're miserable is entirely up to you."

It wasn't the answer that House was looking for and it didn't feel comfortable to live with, but it was the truth. Was he going to sulk and give up and piss away a chance to make a real life for himself, or was he going to think about everything he had to look forward to and enjoy the knowledge that he had made a positive decision for once?

When put that way, there was really only one option to choose from.

House met the psychiatrist's gaze and nodded. Without another word he grabbed his cane and rose to his feet; he headed for the door.

"Wait a minute—where are you going?" Nolan called after him. "We need to head back to Mayfield now and work out the details of your early discharge."

"It can wait," the diagnostician told him. "Right now, I have a job offer to accept."

With that, House limped purposefully out of the office.

**Tuesday, June 1, 2010; 2:00 P.M.**

He was hoping to avoid being noticed coming in and hour late from lunch but that was obviously too much to hope for. As he hurried past the doors to the clinic on his way to the elevators, he heard the shout of his name come from said clinic. The voice was that of the Dean of Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital and it didn't sound happy. Wilson sighed and stopped in his tracks, hanging his head. After the lunch he'd just had with House the last thing in the world he wanted was to tangle with an angry Lisa Cuddy, especially the way she had been behaving lately.

Her four-inch heels (Wilson remembered from childhood that his mother had called shoes with heels of that height 'hooker heels') clicked against the tile flooring as she approached him with determined strides. Wilson lifted his head just enough to see her and was surprised by what greeted his eyes. Instead of her standard work attire—anything with a cleavage exhibiting neck line and skirt so _form-fitting _that it emphasized how curvy her posterior really was—she wore a cream-colored turtleneck sweater and a pair of black dress pants with flats. It was seventy-eight degrees outside and sunny. Why on earth would she dress like it was January?

"I know I'm late," Wilson told her, lifting up a hand to stave off her verbal assault. "I apologize and I plan on staying late and working an hour extra at the clinic as a result."

"Two hours extra," Cuddy told him coldly, "and if this happens again you'll be put on disciplinary suspension. Where the hell were you anyway? I tried to call you and have you paged and couldn't reach you."

Wilson frowned at that. "Why? Is something wrong?"

"Is there something wrong?" she echoed, "There's a nursing strike, my new Head of Diagnostic Medicine got into a fist fight with Dr. Chase, I've had two more doctors resign and I have enough paperwork backing up to keep me at work late every night for the rest of the year—and you ask me if something is wrong?"

"Why were Foreman and Chase fighting?" Wilson asked, puzzled. He didn't really want to know but it was unusual, even the way things were around PPTH lately. As far as he was concerned, the other items she had listed were her own fault and didn't feel at all sorry for her.

"Foreman has concluded their patient has acute aplastic anemia and needs to undergo radiation to kill her bone marrow and receive donor bone marrow from her twin sister immediately, but Chase thinks it's some kind of fungal infection and irradiating her will destroy her immune system and kill her faster than whatever it is she has." Cuddy told him, shaking her head in frustration.

"If Chase is right about an infection and Foreman goes ahead with his theory anyway, she'll die." Wilson told her, stating the obvious. He knew Foreman and the way the neurologist thought and operated. He wasn't evil per se but he _was_ power hungry and once he had it he wielded it with a heavy hand. His hubris became so great it would take close to a miracle to change his mind.

"That's why I want you to go talk to the two of them and find out what's going on," Cuddy told him, rolling her eyes. "The last thing this hospital needs is another lawsuit and the bad publicity that goes with one."

"Right," Wilson agreed cynically, "God forbid a young single woman with three preschool kids should die and complicate your busy life. No, Cuddy. I'm not playing ringmaster of that circus you created up there."

"I created?" Cuddy shot back angrily. "House is the one who lost it and left me with a department without a chief without notice!"

"He was ill. You had him _fired_!" Wilson pointed out indignantly, his voice rising significantly in volume. "_Illegally_, by the way."

"House became a liability to the hospital," Cuddy said in her own defense. "Twice in a twelve-month period he had a breakdown and had to take medical leave for psychiatric reasons after causing disruptions to the normal functioning around the hospital. News of that sort of thing gets out and before you know it you have reporters showing up asking questions, suspicious family members of his less-fortunate patients questioning whether their loved-ones died because they had an unstable doctor—"

"That's bullshit, Cuddy, and you know it!" the oncologist shouted, his voice carrying across the expansive lobby and over the normal din of the clinic, attracting a great deal of attention. Wilson didn't care. If she hadn't fired House, then he would have had another reason to return to Princeton and Wilson wouldn't have lost his best friend and love. His life would finally be going right if she had stopped acting like a complete and total bitch towards House.

"House suffers from clinical depression! That's a disease just as serious if not more so than something like diabetes!" the oncologist continued. "You wouldn't dare to so much as _think_ about firing an employee who suffered as a result of uncontrolled diabetes but you had no problem firing House for nearly dying from his disease! Whether the organ involved is the brain or the pancreas it's still a disease, something that the sufferer shouldn't be punished for having. You could have had House back at work here in a week or so if you hadn't allowed your personal bitterness towards the man interfere with your decision-making. You have nobody but _yourself_ to blame and I'm too busy trying to run my own underfunded, understaffed department to take on babysitting Foreman's as well!"

"Dr. Wilson," Cuddy said in a quiet but threatening voice, "don't forget that I'm still your employer and the woman who signs your paycheck. Keep your voice down when you talk to me!"

Stepping back one step, Wilson tilted his head and appraised her closely, frowning in dismay. He could figure out what the hell was going on with her anymore.

"At one time you called House your friend—yes, he can be a definite pain in the ass sometimes—but still someone you cared about," he pointed out, lowering the volume a little. "You started seeing Lucas and gradually you became offish, angry, spiteful, irritable and bitter and suddenly you're the maniacal autocrat standing in front of me. You're no longer the person I once knew. I wish I could say that's due to growth and positive improvement but it's anything but." Wilson voice dropped dramatically. "What's going on? Is there something happening at home that's causing you pain or stress? Are you ill? Is Rachel ill, or Lucas? If there's something wrong and you need to talk or need help I'm—"

"Nothing is wrong," Cuddy told him through gritted teeth, her eyes flashing—but interestingly enough avoiding his. "And my personal life is none of your business."

"Something is off," Wilson insisted. "Since when do you dress like it's below zero outside in June? Is there something you're trying to hide?" The more he thought about it, the more he was genuinely concerned. As he spoke he was trying to puzzle through the possibilities of what was wrong with her. Was she ill and dressing warmly because she had the chills, or a rash? Perhaps there was something neurologically wrong with her that was affecting her emotions or reasoning centers of her brain—perhaps a tumor or abscess? Was she being abused, and the trauma of it was unsettling her? It would explain the fact she was clothed in a manner that the maximum amount of her body surface was covered from sight.

"How I dress is also none of your business!" Cuddy snapped angrily. "If you don't want to go the way House did I suggest you pick up the slack, get to work on time and do your job!"

"Really, Cuddy?" he said, shaking his head at her. "You're really going to threaten my job when you're already down what—nine doctors, is it now?—because I don't want to have to take on running diagnostics as well as oncology? House is going to be discharged early from Mayfield and he has been sought out and offered a very lucrative and satisfying job developing and leading a brand new fully-funded department of Diagnostic Medicine at a Philadelphia hospital and he's decided to take it. He knows how you deceived and manipulated him all these years—there are three other hospitals that want him—but according to you he's unemployable! House could still be working here but you had to get your revenge on him for being the real man you long for now that one you threw him over for doesn't curl your toes the way you like; well, you'll never have him so get over it. You used to be a smart, dynamic, hard-as-nails hospital administrator—what happened to you? Now you're this petty, needy, bitter, vindictive shrew of a woman who is so self-absorbed and ruthless that you can't even hold this hospital together anymore; it's falling apart at the seams all around you!"

"Dr. Wilson, one more word out of you—" Cuddy began to say, her face turning a bright red with anger and embarrassment.

"And _what_?" Wilson demanded challengingly, shouting again. "You'll have the board fire me, too? I'll save you the time and bother. I _quit_! Consider this my notice! I'll stay long enough to close out my cases and familiarize whoever my unfortunate successor is going to be with the operation of the department and then I'm gone."

The oncologist stalked away from her in the direction of the elevators and didn't so much as hesitate when the Dean of Medicine began to yell at him to come back. He heard a clap, and then a couple more. A couple became a few and a few became many. He _did_ stop for this and looked around the lobby. Staffers were clapping—no, _applauding_ him—and casting furious glares in Cuddy's direction. He was dumbstruck at the response. They were treating him like some kind of hero. He was no hero—he was just another unemployed fool who'd just walked away from the man he was in love with because he hadn't been willing to resign and move away with him for the other man's mental health. Now he had just resigned anyway because he was pissed off but instead of it meaning he was going to be with House, he was going to become even more alone. He was a fucking idiot, that's what. As he turned around again he caught a glimpse of Cuddy marching back to the safety and privacy of her office.

Wilson made it into the empty elevator alone and nearly collapsed into a heap on the floor as soon as the doors closed. He punched the button for his floor and then leaned heavily against the back wall of the car. Once the car reached his floor and the doors opened again he'd somehow found the strength to walk off and head towards the peace and seclusion of his own office for as long as it still belonged to him. Along the way he saw Chase and Taub sitting in the Differential room talking, Chase with an icepack held to his jaw. Foreman was nowhere around.

He stopped at the door and poked his head inside. Both Chase and Taub looked up expectantly.

"Chase," the oncologist inquired, "how certain are you that it's an infection and not aplastic anemia?"

The Australian doctor seemed to be surprised by the question but answered quickly, "I'm absolutely positive that it's fungal. I ran a test with Foreman's knowledge and the result just came back positive for a fungal infection, but it arrived too late."

Frowning, Wilson asked, "What do you mean?"

"He means that Foreman is already down there nuking her as we speak," Taub answered.

"Didn't you appeal to Cuddy?"

"Sure," Chase responded cynically. "A hell of a lot of good _that_ did us. She said that unless I have definitive proof that she had an infection Foreman had her go ahead for the bone marrow transplant. I didn't have the lab results back yet and they wouldn't agree to wait for them. I tried to get to the family to convince them to block the irradiation and but Foreman had gotten Cuddy to ban Taub and me from them. I tried to physically keep Foreman from getting to the patient, but as you can see I wasn't successful. I don't know what the hell is going on around here anymore. I never thought I'd say this but ever since House left this place has gone to hell in a hand basket!"

"It _is_ ironic, isn't it? Did you file a formal objection in writing?" Wilson asked. Chase and Taub exchanged looks and nodded.

"Yes," Chase told him. "Right after security stopped manhandling Taub and me."

Wilson nodded in approval. "Good. That way when your patient dies, you've gone a long way toward protecting yourselves from the lawsuit and possible criminal investigation."

The oncologist turned to leave but Chase's voice stopped him

"Wilson, have you talked to House recently? I mean, how's he doing?" The sincerity of his concern could be heard.

"He's much better," Wilson told him wistfully, "and moving on with his life."

He left Chase and Taub to ponder that and went directly to his office without passing go and without collecting two hundred dollars. As soon as he was inside he locked the door and collapsed into his desk chair in exhaustion. After a moment he unlocked the bottom desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of scotch a la House. He didn't bother with a glass but took a couple or three good swallows from the bottle before replacing the cap and locking the bottle up tight again.

How the fuck had he ended up like this? Two months previous his life had looked like it was finally going to turn out right. Now he wondered if he had it in him to stick it out to find out how low he was going to end up before he packed it in.

Staring at the phone, Wilson wondered if it was too late to take House up on his offer. House could hold grudges for a very long time. Was it possible he would forgive Wilson yet again? Or would he mock him for crawling back to him? Would he push Wilson away and have nothing more to do with him? He'd always believed that if his friendship with House were ever to be destroyed, it would be House's doing. He never expected it would be himself that caused the damage.

Wilson picked up the handset from the phone cradle and dialed the only number he had at St. Luke's to contact him: Gage Anderson's office. When he was transferred to voice mail, he hesitated and then hung up without leaving a message.

**(TBC…)**


	25. Chapter 25 Part 2 Ch 13 EDIT

**Resurrection**

**(EDITED VERSION)**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** **Important Notice**: After posting Chapter Thirteen earlier it was pointed out to me certain factual inconsistencies and cultural biases that needed to be addressed. To do so I felt it necessary to completely rework this chapter and alter the future timeline accordingly. Everything before this chapter remains as is. If you have already read the original version you may want to read this edit for future chapters will follow these alterations. Sorry for any inconvenience this may cause. Thanks to Flatpicklover and In The House for their comments that pointed out some of these problems. No Beta for this so please forgive the mistakes that I missed as I read it through.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **M** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Thirteen: Thursday, June 3, 2010; 11:30 A.M.**

The past couple of days hadn't been all that horrible or eventful, despite the fact that he'd had to spend them cooped up at Mayfield. Nolan had been busy catching up on appointments and administerial duties that had been set aside when he had accompanied House to St Luke's for the past couple of days. House had suggested that someone else could have taken him to St. Luke's on Wednesday but Nolan hadn't been enthusiastic about the idea. House had considered protesting his decision—the diagnostician had wanted to visit Hutton and see how she was doing following her procedure but thought better of it, not wanting to push his luck with the man who was willing to approve his early discharge. Anderson had called him Tuesday evening to let him know that Hutton was doing well and there had been no complications.

The gastroenterologist had found and ablated seventeen gastrinomas in her duodenum and four in the jejunum. Today she was to undergo the surgery to remove the pituitary adenoma, which was a little more complicated procedure. Once the adenoma had been removed it would be checked out by St. Luke's chief oncologist to determine whether or not it was malignant. House would have preferred to have Wilson do the job but after their disaster of a conversation on Tuesday he had thought better of it. Besides, Dr. Pender was fully capable of looking through a microscope and running a couple of tests.

On Wednesday House and Nolan had sat down to discuss the terms and conditions of his early discharge from Mayfield. The psychiatrist went over how one of the conditions of the discharge was House's attendance of outpatient programming; another was the abstention from any and all mind-altering drugs including opiates, barbiturates, club drugs and benzodiazepines (unless they were prescribed by either him or Hutton and were being closely regulated).

Among the intoxicants on that list was alcohol. Alcohol had been banned the first time House had been discharged but he had managed to forget that particular addition to list and by the time he'd attempted suicide he had been back to drinking to excess on nearly a daily basis. Certainly it had been in response to the physical pain that hadn't been relieved by ibuprofen but had progressed quickly to relieving his psychic pain as well. The diagnostician hadn't been happy about being thrown onto the wagon but had agreed to keep away from it if it meant he had his freedom.

Another condition had been that House was to remain in psychotherapy with Hutton and refrain from breaking the law. Also, he'd been strongly encouraged to attend Narcotics Anonymous meetings, although that wasn't a requirement. He _was_ required, as with the first time, to sign a safety contract that included clauses like calling Nolan, Hutton or his outpatient leader should he ever feel like he was in danger of using any of the prohibited substances or harming himself in any way.

"I'm very serious about this clause," Nolan had told him. "In times of weakness you have to remember that you are _not_ alone; there is a support system for you if you're willing to use it. Liv and I wouldn't give you our personal phone numbers if we didn't mean it when we said that you can call anytime, day or night, in the case of an emergency. When you went back to your apartment after the crane disaster and were tempted to either use or commit suicide you should have picked up the phone and called me. I appreciate that you were angry at me at the time, but I held no hard feelings and would have taken your call."

For the first time, House had admitted that he should have sought out help and support, something that he was usually loathe to do. He hated appearing weak and vulnerable and found it extremely difficult to trust others under such circumstances, but slowly, bit by bit, he was learning that doing it didn't actually hurt as much as his self-destructive nature convinced him it would.

The date of his discharge had been set for the next Monday, the seventh. He had a few days to work out the details of moving into the house on Hutton's property. He knew that he would need to go back to Princeton long enough to pack a couple more suitcases of personal items, close off the apartment and see a realtor about putting it up for sale, get a change of address at the post-office, transfer his bank account to a branch in Philly and drive himself back to Pennsylvania. He had a month before the next outpatient program began at St. Luke's during which he would work part-time at the hospital at the development of the new department. It would also afford him time to arrange to have the rest of his stuff, including his motorcycle, moved to his new home. By the time outpatient was finished his medical license would most likely have been issued, allowing him to begin practicing right away if he so chose.

Nolan drove House in to St Luke's that morning for his appointment with Dr. Clee, the vascular surgeon he'd met on Tuesday. It was silent in the car for the entire drive, both men lost in their own thoughts. House mused about the way the surgeon had flirted with him so openly. He wondered how he had known that House could be persuaded to bat for the other team, so to speak. He certainly didn't think he gave off a vibe that would set someone's 'gaydar' off, did he? Thirteen had never mentioned it to him if he did and he knew she would have used the opportunity to control or humiliate him if it had been available to her.

Regardless it had been flattering, and he couldn't help but be intrigued. House didn't quite know where things stood between Wilson and him anymore and no matter what happened he would always love the oncologist, but he was tempted to go for that drink with Clee after all. Free sex was free sex, after all, and it had been over a year since he had last had any with anyone other than himself. He'd talked big about having prostitutes come in to the loft around Wilson, but the truth was he wasn't interested in that kind of encounter anymore. He was fifty-one in a matter of days and he wanted more than just a business relationship to get off. He wanted to settle down, find someone he could grow old with and whom would hold his hand at his deathbed. Having a drink with Clee didn't oblige him to anything, either, but who knew what could become of it and he wasn't certain he wanted to risk missing his chance at something good because he was yet again waiting for Wilson. House now knew when he would be available for such a connection.

This meeting with _Justin_, however, was all business. The diagnostician was anxious to have the embolism removed and the aneurysm repaired before it ruptured. Likewise, he wanted the DVT removed before it had a chance to break off new emboli to find their way to cause another infarction in his leg or even his heart or lungs. He also wished he knew why he kept throwing off clots. He was on blood thinners and did his best, when he could, to use his leg and keep the circulation going. Another infarction in his right leg could possibly end up leading to an amputation, and House would do almost anything to prevent that from happening, in spite of what he'd told Hannah in that collapsed parking garage beneath tons of concrete and steel.

House was trying to focus on these issues so he wouldn't end up thinking about Wilson. He'd spent the rest of Tuesday obsessed with what had happened between them, replaying what had been said over and over again, trying to determine the exact moment when he screwed up and quite possibly ruined the longest relationship he had ever had. It kept him awake all night—that, and the pain in his leg and that which radiated up to his lower abdomen. He'd come to only one conclusion in the end—that he had done the right thing in refusing to move back to Princeton. It had been a decision that could quite possibly rob him of a future with Wilson, but really, what kind of future with Wilson would it be if House fell back into the same self-destructive patterns by going back?

They drove up to the main entrance to St Luke's and Nolan stopped in the loading zone right in front of the door to drop House off. As the diagnostician climbed out of the car Nolan grabbed his attention.

"You're here on your own recognizance. Don't make me regret it," the psychiatrist said to him with a half-smile.

"Aww, Daaad!" House whined, sounding like an eight year old, "you're no fun. I like Mom better."

Nolan shook his head, looking slightly amused. "I'll be back at six to pick you up. See you then."

"Not if I see you first," House retorted before slamming the door shut and turning to walk through the entrance. As he crossed the main lobby, he really took in for the first time the details of the building around him. This was going to be his new home, professionally speaking, and he wanted to get to know it well enough to navigate its corridors without having to stop and ask for directions every five minutes. It helped that Roth had given him a quick tour of the various wings including the one where his department was to be located. He intended on going back there later in the day and beginning to mentally design where the various areas would be.

The main lobby was similar to that of Princeton-Plainsboro but the open ceiling went up the full seven stories and starting on the third floor walkways crisscrossed the expanse in a cool lattice-like manner when looking up from the lobby floor. The walkways had tall walls made of thick, clear safety glass and everything seemed to be festooned with green ivy and indoor plants in the public areas. The roof of the hospital was made up of huge panels of skylights that allowed sunlight to shine across everything. It gave the atmosphere of the hospital a feeling of life and vitality that affected even _his_ mood for the positive, not that he would ever admit that to anyone.

As he made his way toward the elevators he passed various nurses, doctors and members of the support staff about their business most of whom would nod at him; some would smile and utter a 'hi' or 'hello' as they passed and it didn't feel forced or phony. It was all so…different. At PPTH he encountered frowns, scowls, whispers behind his back. True, he hadn't made an effort and even had worked against making friends among the other staff members over the years, but even over the past year, when he'd been working harder at civility and patience and making connections his efforts had only brought reactions of suspicion and outright hostility in some cases. Only a few had noticed his efforts and had acknowledged them, the most notable person being Nurse Brenda. They had actually formed a nonverbal end of hostilities, which House never would have expected to happen. House wondered what she was doing now that Cuddy had fired her, and then was surprised at himself for even caring enough to wonder.

He wasn't becoming soft and sentimental, was he? House shuddered at the thought.

Before his appointment House decided to check in on Hutton to see how she was doing before she was taken down for part two of the surgical treatments: resection of the adenoma on her Pituitary gland. When he arrived he found that Hutton wasn't alone. A teenage girl and an adolescent boy were there with her. House decided that they had to be her kids.

Stephania was a willowy girl with ruddy brown hair cut short and stylishly. She had her mother's eyes and skin tone, but otherwise didn't look all that much like Hutton; she must have taken after her father. She wore a blue blouse with a grey tank underneath and a pair of skinny jeans that made her slender legs appear like they went on forever. On her feet was a pair of white Pumas. She was pretty, but not as stunning as her mother.

Ten year old David was the spitting image of Hutton minus the boobs and ass (luckily for him). He was average in height for his age and a little stocky perhaps but nothing a few inches of growth wouldn't take care of. He wore his wavy black hair longer; his eyes were greener than Hutton's but were framed with the same long, dark lashes and shaped slightly almandine like hers. Puberty hadn't hit yet and likely wouldn't for another four years or so, thus he was narrow at the shoulders and still had the look of a child to him; He dressed in the typical skater fashion and House was surprised not to see a board tucked under his arm.

Both kids turned when they heard him enter and stared at him curiously. House turned to leave immediately but Hutton stopped him.

"House, don't go," she told him with a weary look. "I want you to meet my offspring."

"You make us sound like something alien that hatched," Stephania objected, screwing up her face.

"You mean Mom and Dad never told you that they adopted you from a mutant swamp-dwelling race of—" David began snottily to his sister.

"Shut up, you dork!" Stephania growled at him, snatching his hat off of his head and tossing it across the room.

"Flick off, Leech-girl!" David spat, shuffling his feet as he went to pick his cap up and put it back onto his head.

"Aren't they charming?" Hutton said sarcastically to House with a sigh. "They're an absolute joy on road trips, too."

"I can only imagine," House responded drolly.

"Okay, guys, enough," Hutton said to them. "I'd like you to meet Dr. Gregory House. He's one of the doctors who figured out what was wrong with me. He's going to be living in the guest house."

Stephania smiled mildly at him. "I'm Stephania but everyone but mom calls me Stef. What do you go by?"

"_Sir_," House told her straight-faced but his eyes were smiling. Stephania looked at him a little uncertainly. He decided to let her off the hook. "But you can call me House if you want."

"How about _Gregory_?" David asked, crossing his arms in front of him and appraising the doctor a little smugly.

"Only if you want to be pushing up daisies," the diagnostician told him with a smirk. "I take it you're Dork—or is it David?"

"Dork will do fine," Stephania sniped, glaring at the back of her brother's head.

"Shut your face, crap for brains!" David spat back, annoyed. "I don't even know what a dork is!"

"Do _you_?" House challenged the teen, raising an eyebrow.

"It's just a word," she shrugged, "like nerd or geek."

House looked over at Hutton who was holding back a laugh; she obviously knew what a dork was.

"It's a whale penis," House told the teen in a matter-of-fact fashion, "which is considered a delicacy in some cultures and with lady whales alike."

"Skank!" David shouted, turning to his sister, who stood looking mortified, her face turning a lovely crimson.

"David!" Hutton said severely. "That is one word I don't want to hear from you again about your sister or anyone else. Is that understood?"

"But she called me a frickin' fish penis!" the boy objected, staring daggers at his sister.

"Actually," House told him, "she called you a dork. Penis starts with a 'p' and I'm pretty certain you've been called a lot worse, am I right? It's simply a part of the anatomy of a whale, and whales are mammals like humans are, not fish. You, however," he stressed to David, "just called your sister what is roughly the equivalent to a white-trash crack-whore. I think you got off easy, _dude_."

David glared at House; Stephania was recovering from her embarrassment and looked at the diagnostician incredulously.

"You leave an interesting first impression, Dr. House," she told him.

"I could say the same thing about you," he told her impassively. "Thanks to your squabbling you're mom is going down to surgery in a couple of minutes with a stress headache and you two are engaged in a battle of wits when you're both tragically unarmed. Kiss your mom and engage in any other stomach-turning sentimental acts you feel you must and then get out so she can relax in some peace and quiet before they come to get her."

The kids did as he said, each of them giving her a hug and a kiss before leaving. On their way out both looked at House with the same look of uncertainty they had when he first came in.

Hutton sighed in relief. "Thank you," she said to him with a weak smile. "They tend to act like this when they're scared. The last time they had a parent in the hospital was when Marcus died."

House appraised her carefully; he saw guilt in her eyes and shook his head at her. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" she asked.

"Don't feel guilty about being in here and causing your kids to be scared," he told her. "It's not something you could have prevented and unlike their father, you're going to be walking out of here in a few days. They'll be fine."

Hutton nodded reluctantly. "I know. So what happened on Tuesday, anyway?" she asked him, her body beginning to relax.

"Nolan didn't tell you?"House asked, a little surprised. Then again, he realized that the senior psychiatrist probably hadn't been back to St. Luke's since then.

"No," she answered. "He left a message to assure me that he talked with you and you were alright but aside from that, I wasn't told anything else."

Nodding House stared at a spot on the wall just behind Hutton and over her right shoulder. He often found it much easier to talk about sensitive issues with her if he could avoid meeting her gaze to begin with.

"Wilson was here on Tuesday," the diagnostician told her quietly. "He came with the attorney representing me in the lawsuit I'm filing to go over my account of what happened. After the lawyer left, we got to talking. I told him that I wasn't returning to Princeton to stay once I was discharged. He didn't take it very well. He accused me of not loving him anymore and was angry that I had made these arrangements without at least informing him. He tried to convince me to change my mind. I explained to him that this move was something I had to do to take care of myself and my future. I told him I wanted him to come with me. He said no, and then walked out."

The psychiatrist frowned in compassion. "I'm sorry to hear that, House. I truly am. In time he may change his mind. I'm very glad to hear that you stuck to your guns under those conditions, though. It's a good sign. I know that doesn't help with the disappointment you must be feeling, though."

House shrugged. "I can't wait for him in hopes that he'll change his mind and come back and I don't want my mother to die in order for us to reunite at _her_ funeral like we did at my dad's. But I think I finally pushed it till it broke." He said that last part quietly, more to himself that her.

"What was that?" Hutton asked, not understanding what he meant by that statement.

"Nothing," House assured her and then changed the subject. "I see the vascular surgeon today."

Hutton smiled, "Ah, so you're seeing Justin for that, aren't you? He's a good friend of mine. He'll take good care of you."

House couldn't help but smirk at the irony of her statement, thinking back to Justin's flirting and suggesting that they have drinks some time. Hutton saw the expression on his face and smiled herself, a little quizzically.

"House, what is going through that head of yours? You look like the cat that just ate the canary. What's up?"

He shrugged self-consciously. "I met him on Tuesday in the cafeteria at coffee break. I was with Anderson when he made himself at home at our table and introduced himself. Somehow he sensed that I occasionally swing both ways and flirted quite openly with me. He suggested we should get together for drinks…some time." He avoided her eyes almost bashfully but the smirk was still there.

"Wow!" she said, a little surprised but not at all in objection. "Good for you! He's a little forward but he really is a very good guy. It'll have to wait until after your surgery, of course, but I say go for it! What have you got to lose?"

"Nothing, really," House admitted a little glumly. "Wilson walked away and I have no idea if he'll ever change his mind. I can't wait for him any longer. I'm just surprised, really."

"Why surprised?" Hutton asked.

"I don't usually attract people that way," he told her frankly. "I generally repulse people instead."

"You haven't repulsed me," Hutton reminded him. "You haven't repulsed Gage or Wilson. In fact, House, you are a very attractive man. I would even say handsome, myself. When you don't have your quills ready to attack, Mr. Porcupine, you're a fascinating, dare I even say—oh!—charming individual. Give yourself a little credit. My only hesitation is the meeting for drinks part."

"Don't worry," House assured her, "if I accept the offer I'll stick to coffee. I don't want to screw up my opportunity for the early discharge."

"Or risk your sobriety," she added. "I don't think you're an alcoholic, House, but you have admitted to abusing it a great deal in the past and it's probably a very good idea to avoid it altogether from now on. Besides, it doesn't mix well with your meds." Her Cheshire smile returned. "So, Justin got to you, huh? He _is_ a cutie. Good for you! So what was it—Justin's sexy eyes or his smokin' hot ass?"

House looked at her with amusement and a raised eyebrow.

"What?" she asked defensively. "I'm a red-blooded heterosexual woman and I can stare at his ass if I want to, even if he _is_ gay." She sighed. "I _really_ need a man."

House couldn't help but chuckle at that. "Anderson seemed to be eyeing your assets the other day," he told her with a suggestive wag of his eyebrows.

He noticed a sparkle in her eye after he said that and some color came to her otherwise pale cheeks. "He's dating someone; I've seen her. Why test drive a rusted silver Dodge when you can drive a shiny new Candy-apple red Mustang convertible?"

"Now look who's putting herself down," the diagnostician told her. "Doctor, heal thyself. I saw a picture in Anderson's office of you and him with a group of people at what looked like a hospital Christmas party. You made that little black dress you wore sizzle and from the way he was looking at you in that picture he was especially impressed with your airbags and rear bumper. Trust me, she may be a Mustang but you're a sleek and sexy Jaguar."

"Is that anything like a Cougar, perchance?" she asked dryly. House smiled slyly causing her to laugh. She grimaced from the tenderness in her abdomen but kept laughing anyway. House hadn't been exaggerating. She _was _beautiful, even as weak, frail, and underweight as she currently was. When she gained back some weight and the color came back to her face she'd be a knock-out again, hands down.

"You're good for my ego, House," she told him fondly. "Thanks." Her face dropped suddenly as the magnitude of what the surgery could mean for her finally made itself apparent to her. "It could be cancerous," Hutton commented quietly and then bit on her lip.

The diagnostician didn't mock her for stating the obvious or just coming to that conclusion now. He knew she had been quite aware of the possibility of malignancy before this and her reaction right now was from fear facing the surgery. Other people would have known the right words to say to comfort her; some even would have lied and told her she had nothing to worry about. House, however, wasn't eloquent when it came to comfort and encouragement and he liked her too much to be cruel to her by lying and offering her false hope.

"Yes, it could," he told her soberly. "There is also the possibility that it's benign. That determination can only be made after this surgery. Worry right now is purposeless."

Hutton gave him a sad little smile. "Thanks." There was no hint of sarcasm in her voice.

He looked at her quizzically and shifted his weight almost entirely onto his left leg; his right one was really aching. "For what?" he asked.

"For being here right now," the psychiatrist answered, shrugging one shoulder, "and respecting my intelligence enough to be honest with me."

House didn't respond but he did rest a hesitant hand on her shoulder for a moment. The woman reached up and put a soft, cool hand on top of his. Shortly after that he left her to make it to his appointment.

He took the elevator to the fifth floor where the surgeon's office was said to be located. He found Clee's office easily enough and checked his watch. Amazingly, he was on time. He rapped lightly on the door with his cane.

"Come in!" came the call from within. House opened the door. The office was large and furnished in a style very similar to how Cuddy's interior designer had decorated Wilson's loft. The blinds over the two large windows were open, admitting daylight and brightening things. There was the front area where Clee's large oak desk was located as well as a small sitting area with a beige leather sofa and two armchairs facing each other with a small coffee table between them. Towards the far end of the office was fashioned an examination room that could be closed off for privacy with a series of hanging panels of a deep brownish burgundy that matched the throw cushions on the sofa.

Clee was seated behind his desk in a large leather executive chair. On his desk stood a vase with lavender stalks, mini-Shasta daisies and fern-like greenery alongside an eight-by-ten bronze picture frame with its back facing House. There was also a prism paperweight that refracted the sun coming through the windows into the full spectrum of color across the surface of the papers resting beneath it. He was signing something and threw it back into its file folder before looking up and smiling.

"_House_," he said smoothly, "_So_ good to see you again. Have a seat, please." It struck House how rich his baritone was.

The diagnostician took a seat on the sofa. "Peachy," he answered plainly.

The vascular surgeon chuckled as he rose from his seat, grabbed House's file off of his desk and then took a seat on one of the armchairs. "Peachy is better than shitty. How's your pain level currently?"

Shrugging, House answered, "The radiating pain is currently about a five out of ten and the normal pain in my thigh is about a four."

Clee nodded, opening the file folder and setting it down on the table between them. Aside from a few eyebrow arches, eye flashes and small smiles here and there, Clee was all business, which was actually a relief for House.

"I was reviewing your file just before you arrived," the surgeon told him. "Dr. Travis sent me a copy of his copy of your file from Princeton-Plainsboro as well as the films that were taken just recently. The embolism is restricting normal blood flow by approximately eighty-five percent and you definitely have the formation of an aneurysm, no doubt about it—but I'm sure you've already gone over the films yourself by now so none of this is news to you. I want to do another MRI because I don't like the clarity of the image of your calf, where the DVT originates. The arteriogram is clearer and it doesn't look good. Truth be told, I'm a little surprised you haven't suffered another infarction by now. I want a better look, however. How long ago did you first notice the pain and was it a sudden onset or did it begin gradually?"

"At first I noticed that my right foot and ankle were frequently swollen but that had always occurred since the infarction," House assured him grimly, "only not as frequently as lately. A few weeks after that I began to have periodic shots of pain radiating from my thigh into my groin which gradually, over a period of about a month extended into my lower abdomen. The pain increased gradually to where I'm at now. I admit I forced myself to ignore the early symptoms—I wasn't thrilled about the prospect of further clotting issues."

Clee gave him a knowing smile. "Shame on you, Doctor! I'm positive you've cursed at patients of your own that ignored the early symptoms of a condition instead of seeing someone about them right away."

"It's different when _you're_ the patient," House admitted ruefully with a half-shrug. "Once the pain reached the abdomen I knew for certain that my suspicions were right. The tests were merely for confirmation. It's made for a great deal of difficulty in standing for any length of time, not to mention walking or moving about in general."

"Of course," the surgeon acknowledged with a nod. "Well, treatment has been delayed long enough. You have a ticking time bomb in your leg and there's no certainty of when it will go off, but I assure you it will." He rose gracefully to his feet, House noted enviously, and walked over to his desk. House followed him a little less gracefully.

"I'm a little concerned that Dr. Travis didn't have you come in to the ER right away," Clee went on. "As soon as I took a closer look at those films, particularly the DVT itself, I knew we needed to act right away. Is there anything standing in the way of you being admitted today, as soon as possible in fact? Will Doctor…," the surgeon referred to House's file for a moment, "Nolan—oh, you have _Darryl_ as your doctor of record do you? My apologies-_really_. Well, we won't worry about whether Dr. Stick-up-his-ass likes it or not, House. I'm admitting you immediately."

House couldn't help but snicker at the vascular surgeon's words concerning the psychiatrist since his attitude so closely resembled the diagnostician's own. As far as being admitted right away, it didn't come as a surprise to House. He'd been prepared for it.

"I take it you've met him," House retorted.

"Met him?" Clee responded as he worked on his computer, making the arrangements electronically with Admitting. "I probably shouldn't be telling tales, but professional ethics aside, my last life-partner saw him for two years and all I saw was his growth of disillusionment as his depression failed to improve. He was frustrated with Nolan's rigid style. I tried to convince him to see someone else but for some damned reason Charlie had this misplaced sense of loyalty for the man. It was his undoing, ultimately."

"He didn't see any improvement?" House asked him without thinking. He really didn't know why he cared enough to ask.

Clee looked up at House with serious eyes. "He committed suicide. That was three years ago last month." Clee's eyes returned to the computer monitor. "I was under the impression that Liv was your therapist. Don't worry, she didn't say anything. Gossip around here is terrible. You'll find that out when you start working here. Yes, I know that through the grapevine, too."

House took a moment to respond; the surgeon told of his partner's suicide as if he was talking about the weather. Of course, it had been three years and he may have dealt with it and moved on to the point where speaking about it no longer held the pain it once had.

"It's complicated," House told him, "but she is the one I meet with for actual talk-therapy. Nolan's more the administrative end."

"I've heard Liv is good. Count yourself lucky." Clee pressed enter on his keyboard and the laser printer behind him came to life, printing out two sheets.

"I do," House admitted softly. From where he stood next to the desk he could see the photograph in the bronze frame. It was a picture of a young girl, perhaps ten years old, looking very much like a school photo. House glanced between Clee and the photo; there was an uncanny resemblance, particularly around the eyes.

"You'll have to finish filling these out yourself and take them down to the Admitting desk in the main lobby," the surgeon told him, collecting the forms from the printer and then fastening them together with a paper clip. He held them out to the diagnostician.

House nodded in agreement, accepting the forms from him; he felt the small brush with Clee's fingertips against him, the first real flirtation since he'd arrived. It sent a jolt of electricity through his arm all the way to his groin. Yeah, he _definitely_ needed to get laid soon.

House took another look at the photograph. Clee noticed and smiled, taking in the photo himself.

"The prettiest fourth grader in the country," the surgeon told the diagnostician with a proud grin. "Jenny lives with her mother in Camden. I know what you're thinking. You're wondering about a gay man having a child. A good friend of mine wanted a baby and I wanted one, too; a little _in vitro_ and _voila_."

"Do you get to see her often?" House asked even as he was wondering why the hell he even cared.

"Anytime I want," Clee replied. "Her mother recently got married but her husband is also a good friend of mine so there are no issues."

"Does she know you're her father?"

"Absolutely!" Clee answered. "She's _always_ known. Smart little cookie too, if I do say so myself. Well, there you have it. You can expect to be in surgery by four today."

House nodded and moved toward the door; Clee walked with him there.

"Well, House, I'll see you in a couple of hours," the surgeon said, extending a hand. House debated with himself for a moment before taking his hand. As they shook, House smiled.

"Yes," he told Clee.

Looking at House quizzically, the other doctor echoed, "Yes?"

"I'd like to go for drinks, after this has been wrapped up," the diagnostician explained a little self-consciously. Clee's face lit up with a pleased smile.

"Oh, _excellent_! I look forward to it. First, let's fix you up so you live long enough for that." Clee murmured, looking House in the eye and the latter swore he could see a sexy, smoldering unadulterated lust in their smoky-grey depths. "I'm _really_ looking forward to it."

The diagnostician could feel a warmth building in his lower abdomen and he forced the slightly guilty feeling and thoughts of Wilson out of his mind. Wilson had walked away on him once more, and House wouldn't allow himself to follow after him yet again like a lost puppy. He was moving on even if, regrettably, that meant doing so without the oncologist. Besides, he really, _really_ needed a good fuck.

House held his hand a moment longer than was necessary and then let go. His heart was beating quickly in his chest and he was glad the surgeon couldn't see it. House turned and walked out without looking back, playing it cool.


	26. Chapter 26 Part 2 Ch 14

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** No Beta for this so please forgive the mistakes that I missed as I read it through.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **M** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Fourteen: Thursday, June 3, 2010; 12:29 P.M.**

Dr. James Wilson sat at his desk eating his Portobello mushroom and Swiss cheese sandwich in the privacy of his office. Since House had left he'd spent most of his lunches alone there, catching up on paperwork or pretending to do so when he was all caught up. It was better than sitting alone at a booth in the PPTH cafeteria, staring at the empty seat opposite him and missing his best friend terribly. He had figured that by holing up behind a closed door it would be easier not to think about him, but he'd only been kidding himself. In his office he stared at his telephone and debated endlessly about calling Mayfield and telling House that he'd quit his job, sent away his CV to five hospitals in the Philadelphia-Camden-Trenton triangle (as well as elsewhere) and was going to call Bonnie about putting his loft up for sale as soon as he heard anything back. Why he didn't do that, he wasn't certain. Was it simply his stubbornness, or was it fear? Could it be his pride getting in the way, or something else entirely? All he knew was that every time he picked up the handset and poised his finger above the keypad, he couldn't bring himself to actually dial—and he was driving himself crazy with it.

His hand was hovering over the phone again when he was startled when it began to ring. He shook his head at himself, took a deep breath and picked up.

"Dr. James Wilson," he said pleasantly into the phone.

"James, this is Darryl Nolan," came the familiar voice over the line. The moment Wilson heard it his heart froze in his chest. News was usually not good when it was coming from the psychiatrist and the oncologist's mind began to spin through the possibilities of what could have happened with House that would prompt Nolan to call him.

Swallowing hard, Wilson answered, "Hello, Darryl. Let me guess…something is wrong with House."

"Easy, James," Nolan told him, obviously hearing the anxiety in his voice. "Greg is alright. The reason I'm calling is because he asked me to let you know that after seeing the vascular surgeon today he was immediately admitted and will be having surgery on his leg today—this afternoon, in fact."

"That's quick," Wilson responded, calming greatly although still feeling anxious about his friend's leg. "It must be pretty serious."

"It is," the psychiatrist agreed. "The DVT is cutting off more than eighty percent of the blood flow in his calf and has cast off the embolus that has been causing Greg a great deal of pain and danger in his groin and lower abdomen. Dr. Clee is concerned that more emboli could break free at any time and one of them could hit his lungs, heart or brain. Also, the aneurysm in his iliac vein is much larger than at first believed and its imminent rupture is certain. His surgery is scheduled for four o'clock; House mentioned that you had agreed to be here for it. Is that still your intention?"

Was it? Wilson asked himself. When he'd agreed to be there for House they hadn't been at odds about the diagnostician's move to Philly. Their disagreement had followed and Wilson had walked out in frustration. He was actually surprised House still wanted him there, but did _he_ still want to be there? Or would going only serve to remind him of what he was losing? Then again, there was definitely serious risks involved in the procedures that House was about to undergo, including the chance that emboli could be broken free by the surgery itself resulting in House having a pulmonary embolism, myocardial infarction, or stroke. He could die if any of those happened. Did he really want to stay away and then, God forbid, be called later to be informed that the diagnostician had died without him being there to say goodbye.

When he had donated a lobe of his liver, House hadn't wanted to be present for the surgery for fear of witnessing his best friend's death, but he'd gone anyway for Wilson's sake. Couldn't he, at the very least, return the favor? He told himself that he was in love with House. If that was true, then was being present for House's sake too much to ask?

It wasn't. "Yes, it is," Wilson answered. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Good," Nolan answered. "Thank you James."

"Bye," Wilson said and hung up. He contacted his P.A. to let her know that he would be leaving right away and to reschedule any appointments he had for the rest of the day. He was only there now to wrap things up with his cases and the administrative matters before he left for good. He had loyalty to his patients but not to the hospital anymore.

Wilson removed his lab coat and put on his jacket. He threw a few things into his briefcase and then headed for the elevator. He'd stop in at Cuddy's office to let her know he was leaving for the rest of the day but he had no intention of asking for her permission, whether she liked it or not. What was the worst she could do—fire him?

As he passed the Diagnostics room he was snagged by Chase.

"Wilson," the younger doctor addressed him, stepping into stride next to him, "I've been meaning to talk to you about House but we've been missing each other. You mentioned that he was doing better, but that was rather cryptic. Do you have a few minutes—?"

"Actually," the oncologist interrupted him when they reached the elevator and he pressed the call button. "House is having surgery today and I have to run a few errands before I head for Philly. Give me a call sometime."

"Surgery?" Chase echoed, frowning in concern. "What is he having surgery for?"

The elevator doors opened and Wilson quickly stepped into the waiting car where three other employees were waiting for their transport to resume. "I'm sorry, but I can't say anything without House's permission. We'll talk later," he told the Australian doctor as the doors slid closed between them. There were no other stops before the lobby. Wilson stopped at the main desk, checking out for the day and then headed for the clinic. To his surprise it was closed. Usually that time of day it was bustling with patients, standing room only in the waiting room. It was now empty when he stepped through the doors and headed for Cuddy's office.

The Dean of Medicine was on the phone when he walked past her protesting P.A. and barged in without knocking; simple acts of respect were no longer of concern to Wilson as far as Lisa Cuddy was concerned. She looked up at him, frowning angrily and holding up her hand to silence him before he could speak. He considered speaking anyway, but then thought that that would be rude to the other person on the phone and decided against it. Instead he listened in on Cuddy's end of the conversation.

"What?" she said loudly into the phone. "Lucas…Lucas, this is a bad connection. I can't make you…Say again? What do you mean you have to leave? I thought you said you didn't have a case currently…? Yes, but the nanny has a dental appointment today and she can't come relieve you!"

Wilson sighed in disgust. If he'd known that the person on the other end of the line was Lucas, he would have interrupted after all. Now he didn't because anytime he heard an argument between Cuddy and her much younger lover it was entertaining.

"Well, I don't know," Cuddy continued to whine, her voice becoming uncomfortably high-pitched, "but I have a meeting this afternoon so I can't just come home…what?...No! Lucas, I just told you I have a meeting with the Finance committee so I won't be able to keep Rachel here with me…So tell her that you'll meet with her tomorrow, that today—Lucas! Damnit Lucas, don't you dare hang up on me! Lucas…Lucas? Damnit!" She shouted as she slammed the headset down on the cradle. She turned on Wilson. "Who the hell do you think you are just barging into my office while I'm busy?"

"Yeah," Wilson retorted, smirking bitterly. "Busy. Keep telling yourself that. I'm telling you that I'm leaving for the rest of the day." He turned around and strode toward the door knowing that he wouldn't get away that easily.

"The hell you are!" Cuddy spat, rounding her desk and grabbing him by the arm to stop him. "You're being paid to work, not go home and drink yourself stupid again! I had to close the clinic today because there was no one willing to work it today with the staff shortages. I need you here!"

"No can do," Wilson told her with a half-sneer. "House has surgery today and I said I'd be there for him. I have to go, so let go of my arm, Cuddy."

"Surgery?" she echoed incredulously. "For what? What has he done to himself now?"

"Because every health issue he's had over the years has been of his own doing, right?" Wilson said cynically, scowling at her. "For your information, he's at risk of another infarction, perhaps a hell of a lot worse, and he's having emergency vascular surgery. I'm certain he's apologetic that he couldn't preplan his medical emergency to suit your schedule."

"Another infarction?" Cuddy's voice lowered considerably, her eyes widening in surprise and even a little bit of concern. "His leg?"

"Yes," Wilson replied, lowering his voice as well. "A DVT in his calf broke off an embolus which lodged itself in his iliac vein, causing an aneurysm that could rupture at any point in time. The DVT itself is threatening the circulation in his right calf and looks like it could spawn more emboli if it isn't taken care of a.s.a.p. He saw a vascular surgeon today who hospitalized him immediately. He's booked for surgery at four and I told House I'd be there for it. I have to go if I want to get there on time."

"I didn't know," Cuddy told him, subdued by the news. "Did it just come on rapidly?"

Shaking his head the oncologist replied. "No. Apparently he's been experiencing increased pain and knew that there was something wrong for months now and didn't bother to tell anyone or see a doctor about it until he found himself in Mayfield again."

"But why wouldn't he tell someone sooner?" she demanded, confused. "Why didn't he mention anything to you while he was still living with you? He knows damned well that putting off treatment on something as serious as a DVT could be life-threatening."

Wilson sighed. He'd asked himself the same thing since finding out about it. "I guess we all were too busy with our own lives and issues to even notice that something was wrong and he figured we didn't give a damn so why should he? I know _I _was sending off those signals loud and clear. Makes his suicide attempts a little more fathomable, doesn't it? I really have to go."

Cuddy nodded and released her grip on his arm. "Let me know how it goes?"

Wilson regarded her carefully. He couldn't figure out her mood swings lately. One moment she was screaming like a harpy into the phone and the next she was soft-spoken, asking about the well-being of a man whose career she tried to destroy. If he'd been a chauvinist jerk, he would have attributed it to menopause or the like. Instead he chose to believe she was unstable at best, the world's most self-centered, narcissistic bitch at worst. Not answering, he turned and hurried out of her office.

**Thursday, June 3, 2010; 3:03 P.M.**

House tried to relax in his hospital bed. Shortly he would be taken down to pre-op and prepared for surgery on his leg and lower abdomen. He knew full well of the procedure he was facing and of the complications that could arise during or post-op. There was a fairly significant possibility the DVT could cast off more emboli into his bloodstream for parts of his body that wouldn't fair well should a clot decide to lodge itself in one of the smaller blood vessels and make itself at home. It wasn't like his condition was all that rare or that his surgeon hadn't performed the procedures before, but he would have been a fool to delude himself into believing nothing could go wrong. The first blood clot that had caused the infarction in his thigh had resulted in complications that had nearly killed him. He'd awoken from that operation with his leg mangled and his life irrevocably changed for the worse. If he actually believed in God, he would be praying that God wouldn't allow another surprise of that magnitude to occur to him again this time around. Since he didn't believe, he tried to comfort himself with the thought that at least this time he got to say what happened to him while he was under anesthesia without Stacy or Cuddy around to betray him. He knew that if something went awry, Wilson would make certain the surgeons did everything to save his leg if at all possible. He wouldn't trust anyone else with his life like he did his best friend, whether they were on the outs or not.

Nolan had told him a few minutes before that Wilson had said he would be here for the surgery just as he had said he would. House wouldn't relax completely until he actually saw the oncologist with his own eyes. It was ironic. He trusted Wilson to make life and death decisions for him when he couldn't make them for himself, but he couldn't trust him enough to believe he would show up even if he said he would. What did that say about either one of them?

House had closed his eyes and started when he felt an unexpected hand on his shoulder. His eyes shot open to see Anderson standing next to him. He hadn't expected to see him there. He was glad to see him, that he was interested enough to stop by to check on him.

"Did I startle you?" he asked.

"No," House responded. "I was just hoping you were that pretty blonde nurse coming back to take me up on my offer."

The pediatrician grinned and shook his head. "I really don't want to know what your offer was. I just came by to wish you luck."

"How did you hear about this?" the diagnostician asked him curiously. "Not the grapevine again?"

"No," the younger doctor answered. "I ran into Nolan earlier and he gave me the heads up. I also came by to let you know that Liv's surgery is over and she's still in recovery. Everything went well and the surgeon said that he believes he was able to get all of the adenoma. Okay if I tell her about this when she comes to? I know she'll want to know."

House shrugged. "Whatever. That's fine."

"So, are you nervous?"

"Not until you asked," House lied sarcastically, smirking. "Way to go Dr. Bedside Manner."

"Sorry," Anderson told him, not sounding too much like it. "I'm used to dealing with patients four and a half feet tall or less. I was just going to tell you that you're in good hands with Justin. He's one of the best."

"So I've heard," was House's reply just as there was knocking on the open door to the room. Both House and Anderson looked to see who it was. The diagnostician smiled when it turned out to be Wilson. He'd shown up after all, much to the older man's relief.

"Am I interrupting?" Wilson asked.

"Get in here," House told him. Wilson did so and House made the introductions. "Wilson, This is Dr. Gage Anderson, Chief of Pediatrics here. Anderson, this is my friend Dr. James Wilson, Chief of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro."

"Of course," Anderson said politely, reaching to shake hands. "We've spoken on the phone concerning Dr. Hutton. How are you?"

"Good, good," Wilson told him, smiling, taking his hand and giving it a firm shake. "It's nice to meet you. And you?"

"Good, also," Anderson told him with a nod. "I was just checking in on House before he goes down to pre-op but since he isn't enamored with my bedside manner I'll be getting back to my department where the patients aren't so critical of my demeanor."

"That's because they're too young to know any better," House retorted, smirking, fondness in his voice. "By the way, don't think I've forgotten about our heads up game. As soon as I'm moved in to my place you're going to be coming over to make a deposit of your cash in the bank of House."

"No, no, no, not a deposit," Anderson told him. "I'll be making a _withdrawal _because I'm going to kick your ass with my superior poker skills."

"Only if I'm unconscious, Anderson. That's the only way!"

The pediatrician chuckled and clapped House on the shoulder again before making his way out.

"He seems like a nice enough guy," Wilson commented once he and House were alone. "And you haven't managed to alienate yourself with him yet. I'm impressed."

House didn't respond to that, even though the insinuation that he would eventually turn Anderson from friend to enemy given enough time really irritated him. He was becoming capable of making friends outside of the oncologist's magnaminity.

"I'm glad you came," House told him sincerely. "I wasn't certain if you would after what happened the last time we saw each other."

"I said I would come," Wilson told him, his smile fading a little. "Besides, I had to come to sign the consent forms since technically you're still considered _non compos mentis_ until you're officially discharged from Mayfield."

"Right," House said less than enthusiastically. It wasn't like he was reminded of that on a daily basis by the Mayfield staff, after all. There was an uncomfortable silence between them for a few moments that the diagnostician didn't really feel all that interested in breaking all of a sudden. "I've been told over and over again that my surgeon is one of the best vascular surgeons in the country. For my sake I hope so."

"What's his name again?" Wilson asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"I don't know if I told you or not," the older man told him. "Dr. Justin Clee."

There was something unreadable that crossed the oncologist's face upon hearing that and House was wondering what it was about but didn't bother to ask.

"Right," Wilson acknowledged with a nod, "Justin. I suppose he's someone else you can befriend once you start working here."

House smirked, understanding now what the expression had been. "You're jealous," he told Wilson bluntly.

Wilson looked at his best friend as if he were crazy. "What? Jealous? I'm not jealous. That's ridiculous—what do I have to be jealous about? I was simply making an observation."

"Right," House said, unconvinced. "And you just happen to make this observation when I mentioned Justin's name whereas the comment never occurred to you when Anderson was here. Because this has nothing to do with the fact that you saw his name and phone number on the napkin I pocketed the other day."

"So you're on a first name basis after all," Wilson said in response. "That's great. Unusual for you, considering that I've known you for nearly two decades and you rarely if ever call me by my first name."

The diagnostician began to laugh in incredulity. "You _are _jealous!"

"I don't see how this is funny," the oncologist told him coldly. "Okay, you want the truth? Fine. Fine! Yes, I'm jealous, okay? Does it amuse you that I'm afraid of losing you to someone else?"

House stopped laughing. The look in Wilson's eyes was that of hurt and fear. It wasn't funny not anymore.

"No," the diagnostician told him gently, "it's not. Look, you're not losing me. I just can't help but think that you're walking away. I told you that I wanted you to move to Philly with me, not because I feel guilty but because I want to be with you. My moving out of my need to move beyond the darkness of my past does not mean I consider you part of that darkness. I need you. I always have. The offer is still open. You need to understand that I can't be the…the partner you deserve if I return to the life I was living before. The move is my way of…of starting anew. I want to become someone you deserve to love, someone who will treat you better than I have in the past—but I can't be that person there."

Wilson met his gaze, his rich brown eyes warming. "I can't get over how much you're changing in so short a time. There are times when…when I barely recognize you anymore. I don't know how to relate to you anymore. I've wanted to see this side of you for years and now that you're showing it to me I…I don't know what to do, and I can't help but wonder why you couldn't open up to me like this before."

House smiled sadly, shrugging. "I don't know. Maybe I've reached the point where I'm tired of being alone. This isn't easy for me, Wilson. I'm still the cantankerous, angry, egotistical asshole you fell in love with, and I don't want to be someone else. I just want to be a happy asshole once in a while. I'm not happy in Princeton. For the first time in a very long time, I'm looking forward to what lies ahead of me."

Wilson stiffened, looking less than pleased. "Even if I'm not a part of it?"

"I want you to be a part of it!" House told him for what seemed to be the hundredth time. "You're the one who turned tail and stormed out of here the other day, remember?"

"You only want me with you if everything is done your way under the conditions you've set without even talking to me first!" Wilson reminded him, getting a little red in the face from anger instead of embarrassment.

"Here we go again," House muttered, shaking his head. He was getting so fucking tired of arguing in circles with him. For the past year he'd been with the oncologist under _his_ conditions; the diagnostician had had next to no say at all, but that was perfectly fine because Wilson was the one with the power and control. Now that House needed the younger man to agree to a few conditions of his—not to be in control but simply because his psychological well-being required them—it was unacceptable and House was being treated like he was a selfish bastard. Well, to hell with that! He had to look out for himself because if the past few months had been any indication, no one else gave a damn about what he needed.

"Don't try to shut me down, House!" Wilson insisted, hands on his hips. "You know that I'm right-!"

"Shut the fuck up!" House shouted in frustration. "Believe it or not you are not in the running for sainthood! You're refusing to put my psychological needs ahead of your pride! Fine, that's your prerogative. Just don't tell me how much you love me and guilt me with your misplaced jealousy! If you don't want me you have no fucking right to dictate to me who I can be friends with and who I can fuck the hell out of. I won't wait around for you forever, Wilson! I _love_ you—and you know how hard it is for me to say that. I wouldn't if I didn't mean it, but I'm almost fifty-one years old and I have no lover to show of it. I need someone, I know that now. If you don't want to be the one with me then you can just fuck off!"

"You know what?" Wilson shouted back. "I came here for you, but I don't have to put up with this kind of abuse! You're not the only one who's alone, House! I called it quits with Sam for you—to be with you—when I could still be with her and have someone to grow old with! I'm beginning to think I made a huge mistake. I should have known better than to rely on you. Good luck with your surgery, House. I hope you get what you want out of life now that you've made it impossible for me to get what I want out of mine!"

The oncologist stormed out, leaving House staring after him in stunned silence. For the second time in one week, Wilson had left him. Well, he could stay away for good, as far as House was concerned. He was done with him. Every time Wilson walked away it was like someone was driving a knife into the diagnostician's heart and twisting it to cause the greatest amount of damage possible. House couldn't go on like that any longer. He'd tried to make it work, he'd been patient, trying to give Wilson time to get his head together, but now he was tapped out. He wouldn't allow the heartache he inevitably felt every time he associated with the oncologist lately to lead him back into the pit of despair he'd been working so hard to climb out of. It was time to say goodbye to James Wilson for good.

House closed his eyes to hide the tears forming there, craving those little white pills that would numb his heart into not caring about anything, just like they used to.

**(~*~)**

House was transferred from one stretcher to another once he arrived at pre-op. A thirtyish strawberry-blonde nurse came over to him immediately with a blanket fresh from the warmer and covered him with it, going so far as to tuck it securely under his feet. The heat from it began to warm him and felt good against his aching thigh.

"There you go," she told him with a warm smile. "In a couple of minutes I'll be back to start an IV and at that time you'll be given heparin and a mild sedative. If you need anything, just shout."

"A full-body massage would be relaxing," House told her. "I'll take that over the sedative."

"Well," she told him with in impish smile, "I'm afraid that you can't always get what you want." She walked away.

"I think I've heard that somewhere before," House retorted, rolling his eyes. It was worth a shot—better than continuing to mope over a relationship that simply was destined never to be. At least she didn't slap him, something he'd half-expected to occur. It was a very few minutes later when she was back with the IV kit and PICC line. She quickly and efficiently started the IV and PICC line; House was impressed with how little pain she'd inflicted on him in the process. Into the PICC she injected the benzodiazepine sedative and began a bag of saline and a smaller bag that held a heparin solution; the anticoagulant would aid in the process of breaking up the blood clots and preventing emboli from being cast off during surgery.

"There," she said with satisfaction. "You should be feeling the effects of the sedative before long. In a few minutes Dr. Clee with be in to speak with you briefly before the procedure."

House was soon feeling the effects; his anxiety was subsiding and his body relaxing against the stretcher pad beneath him. It wasn't really a high that he felt but rather a slightly floating feeling that was good, too. He closed his eyes to enjoy it until he felt a hand on his arm. He opened his eyes to look up at Clee, dressed in surgical scrubs and cap.

"Are you ready, House?" the surgeon asked, smiling down at him.

"Yeah," the diagnostician answered calmly. Clee apparently found his answer amusing, snickering slightly.

"Ah, they've already given you the good stuff, I see," he told House. "Excellent. I have to make some surgical notes on your legs and groin—like, 'not this leg, stupid, the other one'—with a Sharpie pen. Before that, I'll just remind you briefly of what we're going to be doing to you in there before we knock you out completely. I know you already know but if I don't give all of my patients the spiel they'll dock my paycheck, so humor me." He winked one of his sexy grey eyes in a completely platonic way. "Our first action will be to make a small incision in the right popliteal vein behind your knee and insert a catheter sheath there. Ordinarily we wound do that in the femoral vein but since we'll be operating in two sites this is a better compromise. A contrast dye will be injected through the sheath so I can see the area of the vein I'll be working on, on the fluoroscope.

"The iliac embolism will be treated first and the thrombosis in your calf after that in order to make certain the IVC filter is in place in case smaller emboli break off the calf thrombosis. I'll make a larger incision over the affected vein and remove the clot with a catheter. We'll insert an IVC filter and repair the aneurysm with a stent. For the calf we're going to perform a percutaneous mechanical thrombectomy where a guide wire will be inserted into the same catheter sheath. The wire will be threaded through the appropriate blood vessels to a point just past the thrombosis. A catheter will be passed over the wire to the clot site where a high-velocity liquid jet of an anticoagulant compound will break up the clot. We'll pull everything out, stitch you up and put compression bandages on your leg to help reduce the swelling that will occur as a result of the procedure. Easy as pi. Both procedures together should take about three to three and a half hours to complete. You'll likely be in recovery for at least an hour before they take you back to your room. Any comments or questions?"

House nodded. "Yeah," he grumbled, arching an eyebrow, "just don't screw up."

Clee chuckled. "Not to worry. I _almost_ never screw up."

The surgeon proceeded to make the notes on House's groin and leg with a black marker. Once he was finished he said to the diagnostician, "Gotta go scrub up now, House. See you in there."

House nodded and watched Clee leave the pre-op area.

He wasn't certain but it couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes later when he was wheeled into the operating room where Clee and one of his fellows, the anesthesiologist and two nurses waited for him. They busied themselves attaching House to monitors and the anesthesiologist prepped House.

"In a few moments I'm going to place an oxygen mask over your face," she told him through her surgical mask. "I'll inject the anesthetic into your PICC line and ask you to count down from ten. You'll—"

"Yeah, yeah," House told her, his eyebrows knitting together. "I know the procedure."

She nodded and then disappeared out of his field of vision. St. Luke's wasn't a teaching hospital but there was an observation room above the OR nonetheless. House noticed as Anderson appeared at the window and catching the older doctor's eye he smiled encouragingly at him. House returned the smile. He couldn't help but feel a little comforted by the pediatrician's show of support by being there. Here was someone he barely knew showing concern for him, and he couldn't help but wonder how long it would take him to alienate Anderson the way he seemed to alienate everyone, eventually. Nonetheless, seeing him there helped relax the diagnostician more than the chemical sedative had.

Clee noticed the exchange and looked up to see the man in the observation room. He looked down at House. "Oh look, you have a groupie!" the surgeon commented, smiling behind his mask. "Excellent. We're going to begin now, House. I'll see you later."

House nodded and the oxygen mask appeared over his face.

"Okay, start to count down from ten," the anesthesiologist told him.

"_Zehn_," House began in German just for the hell of it, "_neun, acht, sieben-nnn_…."


	27. Chapter 27 Part 2 Ch 15

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved. Oh yeah...I don't own Cosmopolitan magazine or Ensure nutritional drink either!

**A/N:** No Beta for this so please forgive the mistakes that I missed as I read it through.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **R** **(M)** (Until further notice) for coarse language, sexuality, violence (including attempted suicide) and adult themes.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Fifteen: Thursday, June 3, 2010; 5:18 P.M.**

When House woke from the anesthesia for the first time he was in the recovery room and barely able to piece a cogent thought together. He looked up into the face of a nurse saying his name a couple of times.

"Dr. House, can you hear me?" she asked him for the third time. He blinked dully and nodded; he couldn't remember how to talk yet. "You're surgery is over and you're in the Recovery room. In a little while we'll be taking you to your room. Are you having difficulty breathing?"

He shook his head, wishing she would get out of his face so he could go back to sleep.

"Are you in any pain?"

Again he shook his head and then shut his eyes to her under the premise of 'out of sight, out of mind'. He was asleep again in seconds. He didn't wake up as he was taken down to his room and transferred from the stretcher to his hospital bed where he was hooked up to an IV pump. He wasn't aware of the fact that he had an unexpected visitor waiting for him there, sitting next to his bed in an armchair working on a crossword puzzle with a black pen. When House awoke again he was much more alert much quicker than the first. His azure blue eyes moved to fall on him.

"What are you doing here, Chase?" his speech was slightly slurred from sleep and anesthetic.

The blond headed Australian doctor looked over at him nonchalantly and shrugged. "I'm currently looking for a four letter word for 'sports competition'; third letter is an 'e'."

"Wilson told you that I was having surgery, didn't he?" House demanded, frowning at the deflection.

"No," Chase answered, shaking his head and looking up from the folded newspaper he held. "Well, he mentioned you were having _surgery_ but he wouldn't say for what or where it was taking place. It took a little sleuthing but I managed to find out where you were on my own. So, what did you have done and if you say sex reassignment my advice to you would be to ask for your money back."

House scowled at him suspiciously, his lips pressing together in a thin line. Why _was_ his former employee there and what was it that he wanted? It couldn't be as simple as being concerned for him and deciding to visit, could it?

"Why?"

"Well, Chase said, smirking, "because you don't look anything like a woman—I mean, are those moobs or really bad breast implants?"

"Chase?" House growled warningly. He felt like smacking the amused, cocky expression on the younger man's face.

"Oh," the Australian said, his eyes widening, "You meant, why am I here, didn't you? Well, I thought that was obvious—I'm here to visit and see how you are doing. No ulterior motives, I promise."

"Yeah," House responded cynically, "because you care so _deeply_ about me."

Tilting his head slightly, Chase asked, "Would that be so surprising? I've known you for more than seven years. After a while you kind of rub off on a person, prickles and all. I was curious. Surely you can appreciate curiosity."

House didn't know what to say to that so he decided it would be easier just to tell him what the surgery had been for straight out. Maybe that way he could get rid of him sooner.

_You don't want to get rid of him,_ House thought to himself. _Of all of your former employees and Fellows, he and Kutner were your favorites and Kutner, well, if you start seeing him hanging around your room you're in deeper trouble than you thought!_

"I had a DVT in my right calf. It spawned an embolus that produced a case of Phlegmasia cerulean dolens. I've known about it for a couple of months but I put off having anything done about it until I ended up in the Crazy Club again," House told him, shrugging. "I saw the vascular surgeon today who said I was in imminent danger and admitted me on the spot. I had a surgical thrombectomy for the iliac blockage and aneurysm and a percutaneous mechanical thrombolysis for the DVT in my calf."

Chase shook his head at the older doctor. "You should have had it taken care of as soon as you had diagnosed yourself. You could have ended up dead by putting it off."

"Yeah," House responded, shrugging. "I was busy. It's a moot point now; the problem has been taken care of."

"Do you have any idea what's causing the clotting problem?" the young doctor asked him, both concerned and curious. "After all, it all started what, ten years ago or so? Forty-one is fairly young to be having DVT issues, particularly considering you were fairly active before the infarction, weren't you?"

"Yes," he acknowledged, "but I was also a smoker. Not every day or heavy, mind you, but it still was likely a factor. Now I only smoke when I'm detoxing or I want to impress a hot chick with my James Dean impression."

"Hmm, yeah," Chase said sardonically, nodding, "the 'Rebel Without a Brain' look. The babes love it."

House couldn't help but give him a small amused smile. "You're pretty brave now that you know I can't fire you."

Chase smirked in amusement. "It is a little liberating, yeah. But to be honest, I'd rather face _your_ screwed up, ugly mug and rotten temper everyday than have to work for Foreman any longer."

House raised an eyebrow at the comment. Obviously the Australian wasn't getting along well with the new diagnostic chief at PPTH. _Then_ _again_, House thought ruefully, _who ever has_?

"Trouble in paradise?" House said with a smirk, looking sidelong at him.

"You could say that," Chase answered, nearly gritting his teeth. "We had a difference of opinion over a wrong diagnosis—_his_ wrong diagnosis—and as a result I ended up with this bruised jaw and ten extra hours of clinic duty and the hospital ended up with a dead patient and likely a lawsuit in the works. Foreman?—a reprimand on his record, for now at least."

This was too good. House had to know what had happened; anything that went to prove the neurologist's incompetency was of great interest to him. He didn't know this woman who had died and his only interest concerning her was that her death made his replacement look bad.

"If there's a lawsuit, the board will be looking for a scapegoat with his face on it. What exactly happened?" House asked, trying to sound disinterested but not very convincingly.

With a sigh, Chase began, "Last Monday a twenty-four year old mother of two was brought into the ER after collapsing at the library where she works presenting fainting, fatigue. lethargy, shortness of breath, tachycardia and a slight systolic murmur. A CBC and Chem-20 showed reduced white blood cell and platelet counts, below normal hematocrit, and elevated liver enzymes indicating inflammation. She had no family history of cancer, heart or liver disease on either side but did suffer from Type I diabetes and was insulin-dependent. Aside from having had the mumps, measles and chicken pox as a child she was otherwise healthy and in good shape…." He went on to describe the case in detail including the clues that had led him to believe her illness had been caused by a fungal infection. "When I found out that she had just moved to New Jersey from Missouri where she had worked in a veterinary clinic, I was confident that I knew what was wrong: atypical disseminated Sporotrichosis. I checked her body and sure enough she had been scratched within the last three weeks by an ornery cat at her last job."

House listened in silence, actually finding himself interested in Chase's story, particularly his diagnosis and the progression of logic from the facts that had led him there. A slight smile graced his lips when the younger doctor had told him what his diagnosis had been. It wasn't an obvious conclusion based on the symptomology and labs (Foreman's better in that way) but the Australian had displayed the ability to think laterally which impressed the diagnostician.

"She had been stabilized so I wanted to run blood and lymph cultures to check if I was right before we went ahead and nuked her and thereby destroyed what little immune system she had left, but Foreman declared that he was right, refused to discuss the issue any further and went to tell the family that she had aplastic and that her only hope was a bone marrow transplant from her twin sister. I ran the cultures anyway. Taub agreed with my diagnosis and together we went to Cuddy. Essentially she ruled that Foreman was boss and his theory sounded reasonable enough to her so she wasn't going to interfere."

"Since when?" House blurted bitterly but then shut up and avoided the other man's curious look.

"Anyway," Chase continued after a moment, "I couldn't just stand there and let him do a procedure that would guarantee she'd die from her infection. Taub and I went to the family right after Foreman had left them and tried to reason with them to put a hold on the irradiation and transplant until the results from the cultures were back, but Foreman had stressed to them that time was of the essence and since he was in charge they refused to listen to Taub and me.

"That's when Foreman returned with security and threatened to have us removed from the area if we didn't return to the differential room or the clinic immediately. I may have said a few questionable things about what I thought about Foreman, his diagnosis and his mother and the next thing I knew he'd laid me out like a carpet with a solid left hook. Look, I know I deserved to be hit for the remark about his dead mum, but I was right about the diagnosis.

"While Foreman was irradiating the patient the culture result returned positive for the presence of _Sporothrix schenckii_. They went ahead with the transplant and fourteen hours later she died from multi-systemic organ failure due to shock induced by the uncontrolled infection thanks to her immune system being toast. Wilson was the one who pointed out to Taub and me that we were smart for having filed formal objections before she passed. I didn't give a shit about that; I felt sick about watching the patient's parents bring her three year old and six month old sons in so she could say her goodbyes to them." Chase stopped talking for a moment or two, staring at the pen in his hands, his face a grim mask. "She died when she didn't have to because Foreman was being a goddamned pompous ass and Cuddy wouldn't take five minutes to review the case file and wait for the culture report!"

House didn't say anything and for a few minutes there was silence in the room.

"You made a good call," House told him at last. It was the closest thing to a compliment and pat on the back Chase would ever receive from him. "You presented your case, you appealed Foreman's decision which Cuddy, in her attention to detail and infinite knowledge of infectious diseases, overruled; you tried to physically stop the wrong treatment and you failed. You did everything you could under the circumstances."

"I know," Chase acknowledged quietly, glancing over at House with tired, somber eyes, "but that's not going to bring those boys' mum back, is it?"

House shook his head and replied succinctly, "Nope."

The younger doctor sighed again and then said, "Anyway, Taub quit on Wednesday. So with Thirteen gone, it's down to just Foreman and me—"

House looked at him suddenly, frowning. "Thirteen's gone? Did she quit as well?"

Chase's face went from being puzzled to brightening in realization. "Oh yeah, you wouldn't know, would you? The same night as the crane disaster she left a letter on your desk about taking a leave of absence but she didn't define when she would be returning and she hasn't yet. No word from her either."

A slight frown of concern wrinkled Chase's brow but House didn't say anything about it. He'd suspected an attraction was forming between Thirteen a.k.a Dr. Remy Hadley and Chase but had decided to do the opposite of what he usually did and kept his nose out of it. He'd had his own melodrama playing out around him and hadn't needed to be focusing on others' issues just then.

"But enough about all that," Chase said. "I haven't even asked you how you've been doing lately."

"I know," House told him pointedly, "and I was enjoying it that way."

The younger doctor shook his head and smirked at the predictable response. "I asked Wilson how you were doing but he was pretty vague…he said that you were doing better and that you were moving on with your life. It was strange, really. He didn't seem all that happy about it. Of course, considering what had happened just before that I'm not surprised."

"What are you talking about?" the older doctor demanded. "What happened?"

Chase, just as eager as anyone else to spread gossip, smiled at that, twirling his pen in his fingers like a marching baton. "It happened on Tuesday, the same day that I was hit by Foreman. I wasn't there but I heard the story from Higgs in Radiology who had a front row seat. Wilson hadn't shown up Tuesday morning for work and hadn't called in to warn anyone. He's been showing up late a lot for work and there's a rumor going around the hospital that it's due to the fact that he's too hung-over in the mornings to get up on time. I don't know where that started, but I have noticed he's been dragging in the morning which is weird because I always took him to be a morning person. Anyway, he came in around two in the afternoon that day and Cuddy caught him as he was trying to sneak past the clinic. They had this argument about him being late, Cuddy slapping two hours of extra clinic duty on him and threatening to place him on suspension, so on and so forth. Apparently it became quite heated. Cuddy was bitching about all of her woes what with the nurse's strike and doctors from all departments quitting on her one after another and somehow, I guess, she laid the blame at _your_ feet."

House, despite his unease at hearing about the circulating rumor about Wilson, snorted at that one. Since when wasn't he the scapegoat for everything that went wrong?

"Go on," he urged impatiently.

"Right," Chase responded with a nod. "Wilson apparently blew up at Cuddy and was in her face about the problems around the hospital being her own fault and that she was incompetently allowing the hospital to fall apart. Then he went on about how you were moving to Philadelphia to begin a new job at a hospital there when you could have still been working in Princeton if not for her. Higgs said everyone was shocked by Wilson. No one had ever seen him so angry and upset before."

House sighed silently. He knew why Wilson had been so upset.

"Cuddy threatened to fire him for speaking to her that way," his former employee continued, "and that's when he quit."

It felt to House like his heart had stopped beating and had fallen into his stomach upon hearing that revelation. Wilson had _quit_? He'd quit, after telling House an hour or so before that that he could outlast Cuddy's antics and continue working at PPTH rather than quit and look for another job in Philadelphia so the two of them could be together. Wilson had objected to moving with House despite the fact that he no longer had a job. Wilson had questioned House's love for him, told him that he'd been inconsiderate, implied that House may have been seeing Justin Clee at that point and didn't want the oncologist anymore. House had spent the rest of Tuesday, an entire sleepless night and a full day after that obsessing about what he'd done or hadn't done that caused him to destroy their friendship and any chance of a romantic relationship as well. Yet, for something as petty as a threat from Lisa Cuddy, Wilson walked away from his job to protect his _pride_. Today he'd had his heart broken anew and had decided that he couldn't allow that to happen again.

The diagnostician had to lower his head and stare at his hands in order to prevent Chase from seeing the mistiness of his eyes. He swallowed hard and tried to blink it away, refusing to cry over this and especially not in front of Chase. Not only had Wilson quit but House had had to hear about it from Chase because Wilson had decided that he didn't need to know. _Damn you, Wilson!_ House cursed silently. _Damn you! How could you hurt me like this again?_

As angry and hurt as he was, House knew that he was unlikely to receive a completely honest explanation from Wilson were he to call him up and demand one. He wasn't going to do that. It didn't matter anymore what the reason was.

"House?" Chase said a little worriedly. "Are you okay?"

The older doctor rubbed his face with his hand, cleared his throat and faced ahead, nodding curtly.

"I'm fine."

"No you're not," the Australian told him knowingly. "I know you'll never admit it or tell me what's wrong but you're not fooling me." He paused a few moments and then added, "Just so you know, if you'd called me that night, after Trenton, I'd have come and listened. I don't know if you felt like you were all alone or believed that nobody cared but, well, now you know that someone did—does—whether you like it or not."

House couldn't help but feel a little touched by what the Australian had just said, even if it was nauseatingly sentimental. He wondered if the younger man really meant it, or if he was trying to make House feel better somehow to advance some self-serving ulterior motive. The expression on his face, however, spoke more of the former than the latter.

"So is it true you're moving to Philadelphia?" Chase asked him when House didn't respond to what he'd just said.

"Yes."

Waiting for more from House and not receiving it Chase tried another question. "So you _do_ have another job lined up here. That's…great. Which hospital?"

"This one," was the answer.

"Really?" Chase acknowledged with a nod, running out of ideas to continue carrying the conversation. "I've heard they have a top notch pediatric department here."

House nodded. "I've met the department head," he said. "I'm not surprised. He strikes me as a good doctor."

"Wow," Chase said with a low whistle. "High praise indeed, coming from you! So in what area are you going to be working? Nephrology?"

It was a good guess, House acknowledged, since it was one of his specializations. Apparently Wilson hadn't told his former team about the job offer.

"No. Actually, I'm going to have a key role in the development of a new department of diagnostics which I'll be in charge of once it's ready," the diagnostician told him, unable to hide all of the pride he felt about it. "I have say in how it's designed and staffed from the bottom up. It's received full funding. The department is going to have its own lab and a fully-equipped ward dedicated strictly to diagnostics patients. One thing I'm going to have to get used to is developing teams of doctors each of which will take on their own cases under my supervision. It's not a teaching hospital though I will have Fellows of my own working immediately with me, and the patient load will be considerably higher-which means interviewing. I _hate _interviewing. So, I have a plan on how to make that process much less unpleasant for me."

Chase nodded. "And what's that?"

House looked at him with a smug smirk and smiling eyes. He'd been thinking about this pretty much from the moment he'd sat in Roth's office and signed on the proverbial line. Listening to Chase's story about the patient with the fungal infection had confirmed things for him.

"You're going to help me," he told the younger man. Chase looked at him and frowned, completely bewildered by what the diagnostician had said.

"Come again?"He said to House.

House rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner and sighed. "I have to hire a staff. Since anyone who applies for the job of Assistant Chief of Diagnostics would know nothing about me and I would have to take the time to break him or her in; it will be a royal pain in my ass. You, however, already have been broken in, saving me the time and energy."

A smile tugged at the right corner of Chase's mouth but the rest of his face was still screwed up in confusion and uncertainty. "Did—did you just offer me a _job_?" Chase asked him hesitantly, as if he were waiting for House to shout out 'sucker!' and mock him mercilessly. Instead House looked at him and nodded in the affirmative.

"I thought that much was obvious," House told him drolly. "Perhaps I should rethink this—"

"As Assistant Chief?" Chase went on as if House hadn't said anything. "Me?"

"Well, unless you're Foreman in Caucasian clothing that would be a yes. You," House replied sarcastically but the smirk on his face was an amused one. He'd known that the Australian would be surprised, but he hadn't expected him to be so incredulous. Had he really been that hard on the younger doctor over the years? He thought about that for a moment. Yes, he concluded. Yes he had. And as a result he'd become a good diagnostician. With more experience, he could even become a great one. There was no need to tell him that and overinflate his ego, however. Chase had learned not only how to think logically but also laterally and had demonstrated his willingness to stand up to opposition when faced with it; the patient's life came first, solving the puzzle was just a hair behind that, and having the guts to stick to one's convictions even if it meant losing his job followed a close third.

"You honestly think I'm ready for that kind of responsibility?" the Australian asked him.

"Nope," House lied straight-faced, "but I need somebody with a history of being willing to kiss butt to do my dirty work for me."

Chase looked at him incredulously, apparently uncertain whether or not to take him seriously. After a moment he smiled, which broadened as he nodded.

"Sign me up!"

**(~*~)**

**Friday, June 4, 2010; 8:16 A.M.**

Dr. Linda Bonnar was sitting in the chair next to Hutton's bed when she woke up; the Ob/Gyn was reading a copy of Cosmopolitan snagged from the obstetrics waiting room.

"The article on 'Twenty Ways to Make Him Howl in Bed' is pretty interesting," Hutton told her best friend hoarsely.

"Nothing I didn't already know," Bonnar told her looking up from her reading and smiling. "Good morning, love! How do you feel?"

"Hungry," Hutton answered. She reached to the control panel on the side rail of the bed and elevated the head of her bed until she was at about a seventy degree angle.

"Well, the kitchen is running late so you'll have to wait a little longer for your bland cream of wheat and apple sauce, dear," the other woman told her.

"Blech," the psychiatrist pouted. "I'm sick of this stupid diet. Those Ensure drinks they force on me are god-awful and if I ever see another bowl of butterscotch pudding again in my lifetime it will be too soon. What does a gal have to do around here to get ice cream? It's not like I'm trying to lose weight or anything."

"You're grouchy in the morning," Bonnar observed.

Hutton glared at her, too stubborn to smile. "Shut up!"

The Ob/Gyn laughed and shook her head. "See?"

"You'd be grouchy too if you hadn't been allowed to eat real food in over a week, had to put up with hospital noise all night long and had a headache," Hutton told her. It really had been impossible to sleep soundly with the sound of carts being rolled back and forth, alarms going off in other rooms and medical personnel talking as if it was two in the afternoon rather that two in the morning just outside her door.

"I suppose," her friend allowed with a half-shrug. "It could be worse. You could be dead."

"Why is that your answer for everything?" Hutton demanded irritably.

Bonnar smirked, "Because it's true. Do you want some fresh water? I can go get some for you."

"Sure, thanks."

The psychiatrist watched her friend leave the room and closed her eyes against the sunshine coming through the window that was only aggravating the dull headache she'd had since awaking from surgery the day before. Anderson had come by before going home for the evening to tell her that everything went like clockwork during her adenoma resection and the tumorous tissue had been sent straight to pathology for analysis; they would have their answer today at some point. Hutton was frightened to learn whether or not the growth on her Pituitary had been malignant or not.

The pediatrician had also told her about the emergency surgery on House and the fact that he was in stable condition and doing well. He'd also mentioned something about the diagnostician's friend from Princeton showing up before the surgery but not sticking around to wait out the surgery itself. Hutton was pretty certain that the friend had been Dr. Wilson. It was encouraging to hear that he'd shown up to see House beforehand but she felt uneasy about the fact that he'd left soon after. Then again, it was possible the oncologist had a medical emergency back in Princeton he to attend to. She hoped it hadn't been due to further tension between House and him.

The door opened and Hutton expected it to be Bonnar returning with a fresh pitcher of water; instead it was House, limping very slowly pushing an IV pole with his left hand and a cane in the right. He wore his hospital issue robe and below the hem of it she could see that his leg was wrapped in compression bandages.

"Good morning," she told him with a weak smile. "I see they have you up and about already this morning."

House grunted his agreement and slowly settled himself down into the chair with a sigh of relief once he was seated.

"I have a gorgeous day nurse with a chip on her shoulder," he complained. "Woke me up at seven-thirty to get me moving around. Fifteen minutes out of sixty on my feet last night, half-an-hour today." He nodded at her. "You're looking about as shitty as I feel."

Hutton smirked at that, shaking her head, "House, flattery will get you nowhere-especially _that_ kind. I've got a persistent headache, I think I must be getting bed sores or something and I'm sick of eating mush. Besides that, I'm doing pretty well. A lot of leg pain today?"

"I'm on Toradol right now," the diagnostician told her, shrugging. "It's better than ibuprofen but I can't take it for more than three days because of its effects on my liver. It's currently at a four, so not bad."

Hutton shook her head and smiled ruefully. "House, you are an amazing man. If I was at a four I'd be bitchier than hell!"

"That must explain your attitude this morning, love," Linda told her as she returned to the room with the water pitcher and glass. She turned to House and smiled slightly, "you must be Dr. Gregory House."

"It's a filthy rumor," he replied deadpan. "I'm his evil doppelganger. I escaped from an island prison where he banished me and have returned to seek vengeance."

"Well, hello anyways," she said, unphased by his elaborate sarcastic response, pouring some water into the glass for Hutton. "I'm—"

"Dr. Linda Bonnar," House finished. When she looked at him with mild surprise he pointed at her ID that was clipped to her skirt.

"Okay," the Ob/Gyn said, flushing slightly. "Go ahead and say it—I just had a blonde moment." She turned back to Hutton, who had been listening to the exchange with interest, wondering how her best friend would respond to House's unique personality. Bonnar was very much a first-impression person. If she didn't like you right away, she probably never would. The good news was she was a pretty open-minded person and liked most personality types.

"As I was saying," Hutton spoke up, "the fact that you live hovering between two and four on good days amazes me, House. It speaks of your strength and explains some of your irritability. Anyone would be irritable living with that or worse constantly."

He shrugged it off, "I don't have much of a choice."

Hutton knew that he was feeling uncomfortable with compliments, particularly in front of people he didn't know. His usual response appeared to be embarrassment or egotism depending upon the situation and the people he was around at the time.

Linda pulled up another chair. "Feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but, what happened to your leg—and don't be embarrassed by it. Disease is disease. I've got MS so I have all sorts of shit that happen to me on a daily basis, but I'm not embarrassed by it. It's not like I stood in line for it."

Watching House's expression the psychiatrist remained quiet and watched her patient's reaction to the question. House appeared to be appraising Bonnar with astute eyes, dissecting her with them. When he was done, he answered her.

"I had an infarction," he told her. "It was misdiagnosed as a muscle cramp and by the time that genius conclusion was thrown out I had significant muscle necrosis. I wanted to try a bypass to save the leg; my doctor, who ended up being my boss, angled for amputation, saying that my way was too risky."

"I assume you'd calculated the risk when you made your decision," Bonnar commented, nodding a little. "So what, the bypass failed?"

Smiling imperceptibly Hutton thought, _Good for you, Linda! You've gone a long way toward earning his respect._

"No," House responded and Hutton caught the way the diagnostician relaxed ever so slightly. "I made my decision clear, but I had already presented with tachycardia and was technically dead for a couple of minutes before being revived; the pain was so intense that I was put into a chemically-induced coma to prevent further strain to my heart. When I was under my girlfriend who held my medical proxy decided along with my doctor that the risk was too great and went directly against my wishes, taking option C. They removed the necrotic muscle tissue and sewed it up and left me a cripple with a lifetime of nerve and muscle pain for my trouble."

"Shit," Bonnar said, shaking her head in disbelief. "My dear, if I had been you I would have been fucking pissed when I awakened to half of my thigh gone and bloody chronic pain because my medical choice had been disregarded by someone I cared about. I wouldn't have to worry about that, though. Gary knows it would be his death sentence if he ever betrayed me like that. I mean—that's me."

House nodded, frowning somewhat. "Stacy did what she did because she loved me and feared losing me," he commented pensively. "I understand why she did what she did, but I couldn't forgive her for it and my bitterness drove her away."

"It's just my opinion," Bonnar told him seriously, "but if I were you I wouldn't carry the entire burden of blame on my shoulders. You had a pretty reasonable excuse for being angry and bitter. She betrayed your trust, no matter how she may have tried to excuse it away. If she couldn't be a little more understanding of your feelings then that's her problem. What I don't get is how your doctor could justify going against her patient's decision like that."

"When I was comatose Stacy had final say," House defended. "Cuddy was bound to do as Stacy wanted."

Bonnar looked at him like he was crazy. "Doctor, you know that's a heaping pile of bullshit. I'm assuming that your status from the time that you made your declaration and was put under and the surgery on your leg remained stable?"

"Correct," House answered, sighing.

"Then your decision should have stood," Bonnar told him. "You made a carefully considered decision with your knowledge as a physician while you were of sound mind and made it clear to your doctor and your girlfriend what you wanted, so unless your situation changed significantly after they knocked you out your doctor had an ethical responsibility to follow your wishes no matter what this Stacy may have wanted. She didn't and as a result you were not only betrayed but you had to take the penalty of her unethical actions. This doctor of yours should be relieved that you weren't vengeful enough to sue her."

House glanced over at Hutton. She smiled knowingly at him as if saying, 'See? I'm not the only one who thinks so!'

"What's the name of that quack anyway?" the Ob/Gyn asked him, "so I'll know where any of my patients are coming from if they had her as their doctor."

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy," House told her with very little hesitation. "Fortunately she spends most of her time in administration these days. Actually I'm in the process of suing her and Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital for wrongful dismissal."

"She convinced the hospital board to rescind his tenure and fire him after he was hospitalized for chronic Major Depression," Hutton added, feeling that it was safe enough now to throw in her two cents.

A stream of epithets left Bonnar's mouth, quietly fortunately, and then she smiled at House as she stood to leave. "I hope you get the maximum reward you're asking for. Firing you for being sick rather than helping you get treatment so you can return to your job more productive than when you left it _sucks shit_. I wonder what she would do with someone like me, who has days where I literally cannot get out of bed thanks to my particular thorn in the flesh. Liv, I have to go prepare for a C-section—the woman is forty-five and having identical male triplets. She's thirty-seven weeks and looks like she should be flying over the Super Bowl. I have two words for mothers in her situation: tubal ligation! I'll see you later, and Dr. House? It was good talking with you."

Hutton waited until Bonnar was gone before telling House with a pleased smile, "She likes you! She's fairly picky about the people she can stand being around."

"Am I supposed to feel privileged or something?" House asked a little snarkily.

"Trust me," the psychiatrist laughed lightly, "you should be. You wouldn't want to get on her bad side if you work here. You think you can be surly and insufferable? You've just met your match."

House smirked as if he had just been presented with a challenge but the expression faded when he said, "I just made my first hire as Chief of Diagnostics."

Hutton's eyes widened in pleasant surprise. "You know, most people wait at least a whole day following surgery before making those kind of decisions."

"I had already decided. He is a former Fellow of mine and was an employee on my team before I ended up on the Wacky Wagon again," House told her. "He knows how I work and I know how he does. He's a good diagnostician—a lazy SOB sometimes but so am I."

"Let me guess," she said in response, thinking about the team members he'd told her about. "It's not the neurologist…umm…Foreman, is it?"

"He's one of the pains I'm leaving behind," House said, rolling his eyes. "It's the wombat."

"Dr. Chase?" she guessed, earning a nod from him. "So what, did you call him up on the phone after waking up from the anesthetic?"

"Nope," the diagnostician told her. "He was sitting at my bedside when I came to. It shocked the hell out of me to see him there."

Shaking her head and drawing her eyebrows together, Hutton asked, "Why?"

House shrugged one shoulder and pondered the question for a moment before answering. "I didn't think anybody from Princeton, other than Wilson, even gave a damn what happened with me."

"Well, I'm glad to see he proved you wrong, "the psychiatrist told him, pleased with this event. She knew that House would deny it but the visit had to have been an encouragement to him. He needed that—and lots of it. "That's what I meant when I said that not everything in Princeton was necessarily a bad thing, and moving on doesn't mean leaving absolutely everything from the past behind. You recognized something good that you could bring with you and took hold of it. That's excellent, House. Tell me, what about Wilson? You mentioned, I believe, that he had agreed to come as a support during your surgery. Did he?"

She saw a dark cloud appear out of nowhere and cast a shadow over her patient's face. This was not good and she was concerned.

"He came, alright," House muttered reluctantly, looking at the floor. "Then he left right before I was taken down to pre-op. Same old argument. Chase told me that Wilson quit his job, but Wilson failed to tell me that, probably because if he had I would have known that his argument against joining me in Philly was horseshit. I guess this means it's over."

Hutton frowned more deeply now. She was angry and disappointed that Wilson would come and give House hope only to upset him right before surgery and break his word anyway. On top of that, he'd been lying by omission for some as yet undisclosed reason. She wondered if the oncologist had any idea what this was doing to House and decided that he probably didn't.

She had to remind herself to remain as objective as possible. Her suppositions were not going to help House, anyway. She knew neither the entire situation nor the true motivations behind Wilson's decisions and behavior. There could be things she didn't know that would cast a different light on the oncologist. Making a mental note, she decided she would try to make contact with Wilson and try to sit down for a talk. She would have to be careful about not divulging privileged information to either party, but it would be easier for her to help House if she understood what was going on in the minds of both men.

She wondered if Wilson would even agree to meet with her once she was out of the hospital.

"Your romantic potential or your friendship in general?" the psychiatrist inquired.

House met her gaze, his eyes showing his distress even though the rest of his body language remained neutral. "Both," he sighed in defeat.

**(~*~)**

**A/N 2:** I'm sorry if I haven't responded to every review that I received for last chapter but I've been having glitches pop up with FanFiction when I try to reply. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. That along with a crappy Internet Explorer have made life interesting lately. I do very much appreciate your reviews!


	28. Chapter 28 Part 2 Ch 16

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** No Beta for this so please forgive the mistakes that I missed as I read it through.** Rating Change Notice: (see below). **

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **M(NC-17) for coarse language and explicit sexual content and/or concepts. **

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Sixteen: Monday, June 7, 2010; 8:45 A.M.**

It was raining cats and dogs outside by the time Dr. Lisa Cuddy arrived at PPTH and drove her car into the underground parking garage. One of the perks of being Dean of Medicine was she got to park in the heated garage so she didn't have to get wet when getting out of her car and walking to the elevator. Her briefcase was heavy with CVs that she had received from doctors interested in employment at her hospital. God knew she desperately needed to fill the numerous vacancies that had opened up as doctors quit in droves like lemmings jumping to their deaths. Some hadn't even stayed for the required two weeks after giving notice; they'd pack up their offices, cleaned out their lockers and left. Those who couldn't just up and leave because of patients that still needed them had begun transferring non-emergent cases to other doctors in their departments (those who weren't overwhelmed already) and protested by engaging in work to rule. The clinic had been closed for days as a result.

Another benefit of parking in the underground garage was that she didn't have to cross the nurses' picket line to get inside the hospital. The one day when she'd gone for a walk to meet Lucas and Rachel at the running park nearby for a picnic lunch she'd been loudly booed and yelled at by striking nurses walking the line; the worst part was it had taken place in front of members of the public who, after hearing the nurses' grievances, looked at her with disapproval or curiosity (the kind of curiosity one had for performers in a freak show). It had been humiliating and had put a damper on what was supposed to be a lovely lunch with her fiancé and child. Worse yet, she'd been pelted by someone throwing a strawberry milkshake at her. She hadn't seen who the culprit was and hadn't even bothered to question potential witnesses to the assault, hurrying to her office to hide behind the drawn blinds and clean up in her private bathroom.

Never—NEVER—had she faced such disrespect and open antagonism like she had over the past two weeks. She had Gregory House to blame for it, too. If he hadn't been a lunatic who attempted suicide on hospital property and returned to the nuthouse she wouldn't have had to fire him. She'd had no choice, really. She'd received phone calls from donors demanding to know what was going on and past patients and families of patients demanding to know why a lunatic had been allowed to remain on staff at PPTH and treat their loved ones (of course, these were the people whose loved ones hadn't made it or had been victims of House's misanthropic surliness). The potential of it becoming a public relations nightmare had had to be curtailed quickly and efficiently for the best of the hospital. She hadn't been willing to compromise or put herself in a precarious position to protect House's ass for the umpteenth time since she'd hired him in the first place.

If she hadn't needed to fire him, she wouldn't have given him the way to become some kind of martyr which her chief nurse had become to worship. That had led, ultimately, to Brenda's firing which had led to the nurses' strike, which was when the shit really hit the fan. That had led to trouble with the union, press coverage and bad publicity. The bad publicity had persuaded some very generous donors to withhold their funds, causing a minor financial crisis for the hospital. That had led to her being called before the hospital board to account for the recent woes hitting PPTH. It had taken quite a bit of sweet talking and compromise to save the Dean of Medicine from losing her job. One of those compromises had been the cutting of budget allotments to various departments including surgery, oncology, obstetrics and diagnostics. That had resulted in a bitter department head meeting which ended up resulting in Dr. Harvey from Obstetrics threatening to take this up with the chairman of the board and Dr. Wilson walking out of the meeting in a snit. The next day pink slips had been handed out to over a dozen residents, putting further strain on the department heads to keep their departments functioning efficiently without a fully-manned nursing staff and doctor-patient ratios that bordered on ludicrous. Two department heads had quit—Harvey and Wilson—and two more were threatening to quit.

On top of all that, Foreman's poor judgment had led to an egregious error that had resulted in the death of one of his patients. The family threatened to file a malpractice suit against the young mother's doctors and the hospital. She was just waiting to be served with that any day now. Taub had quit and walked out right then and there—just walked out—leaving diagnostics with only two doctors—Foreman and Chase—who weren't on the best of terms to put it lightly. It had occurred to her that closing diagnostics altogether might appease the family filing the malpractice suit and free funds to be dispersed to other departments. She would have to either lay off Foreman and Chase or transfer them to different departments; every department needed staff desperately and such a move would help ease some labor tension there.

The board had ordered a D&D be convened over the fungal infection case which meant she had to find time to have that organized as well. She was spending twelve to fourteen hour days at the hospital just to maintain the status quo and seeing less and less of Lucas and Rachel. He was frustrated, she was frustrated, Rachel was upset from sensing all of the frustration so after those long days going home wasn't much of a relief.

All of this, she decided, could be tied all the way back to House. She couldn't believe that she had once thought she was falling in love with him; he'd used her, defied her, disrespected her and caused her all kinds of headaches and for what? _What_?-chaos. Cuddy wished that she'd never set eyes on House back in Michigan so many years ago and wished she'd never treated him for his infarction or hired him on when no other sane hospital administrator would. Well, she admitted, that wasn't entirely true. There had been a couple of hospitals interested in the rogue medical genius but she had convinced House otherwise and had secured his employment with PPTH because she felt sorry for him but also knew that his extraordinary genius might pay off big time for the hospital and therefore, down the line, her.

_Damn you House! _she cursed under her breath as she stepped off the elevator at the Lobby level and strode on her four inch, fire truck red power heels toward her office. She didn't feel safe outside of it anymore. She never knew if something was going to be thrown at her or yelled at her. Because of House her life was a living hell and the worst part about it was he would get away scot-free just like he always did. He created havoc and she was the one left responsible for the clean-up. Oh, how she wished she could exact revenge on him somehow! He needed to learn that he had to accept the consequences of his actions.

She reached the doors to the empty clinic which she had to pass through to get to her office and went to grasp a handle; when she leaned forward just before contact she lost her balance and when she tried to correct for it she somehow tripped over her own feet, pivoting and falling to the hard tiled floor, banging her head against the glass in the process. Cuddy hadn't hit her head hard; it had been just enough to revive the headache she'd been suffering with constantly for the past six days. She landed on her knees and yelped a little from the pain of it but all in faired reasonably well all things consider.

Shaking her head as if to clear it, she tried to figure out what exactly had happened. She sighed, chalking it up to stress and fatigue; those two factors had contributed to a series of clumsy blunders on her part lately.

Just as the Dean of Medicine was about to pull herself up to her feet she felt a firm grip take her upper arm and assist her. She turned to thank her Good Samaritan; he was a handsome brunet in his mid-Twenties or so carrying an envelope under his arm.

"Thank you, Mister...?"

"It's Frank," he told her with a small smile. "Would you happen to be Dr. Lisa Cuddy by any chance?"

She smiled a little coquettishly and nodded, "That's me. Why?"

Frank's smile faded and he took the envelope and held it out to her. "This is for you."

Frowning quizzically she took it. "What is it?"

"A summons," he answered quickly. "You've just been served." Before she could respond he turned quickly and strode away, covering the distance from there to the exit in record time. Cuddy stared after him, stunned. Once he was gone she looked down at the envelope and them up again to see that people were staring at her, some grinning, others whispering to each other. She felt her fury rising. Lately it would appear out of nowhere and swell to such proportions that she simply couldn't control it any longer and had to express it or else she felt like she was going to implode. This was one of those times.

Her face had turned a beat red and every muscle in her body had tensed, causing her to tremble somewhat. Blood pumped all at once to her brain and she felt adrenalin flow through her veins as part of the fight or flight response.

"What the _hell_ are you all looking at!" she literally screamed at everyone in the area. "This isn't a freak show, damn it! Get back to work or on with your business!"

It was so silent in the lobby that one could have heard a pin drop. Nobody moved and seemed as if nobody breathed either. All eyes were still on her only this time they were wide open in shock and amazement. Angry tears flooded Cuddy's eyes as she turned on her heel and swung the clinic door open with such ferocity that it slammed against the stop with a huge amount of force, causing the single oblong pane of glass to shatter everywhere; Cuddy stalked determinedly to her office without looking back, although she did take it easier on the outer and inner office doors as she entered her private space. Once inside she quickly shut all of the blinds.

She strode to her desk and grabbed her letter opener, stabbing the envelope and tearing away at it wantonly, as if gutting a fish or something. She pulled the summons out and allowed the envelope to drop to the floor. Her hands nearly tore it as they quickly unfolded it and began to read. After the first paragraph she could barely see through the tears of anger, fear and frustration. She and the hospital were being sued by House for twelve million dollars for breach of contract and wrongful dismissal.

Cuddy didn't hear the door to her office nor did she see who it was that had entered without permission. She let the summons fall to her desk and then with one sudden burst of rage she brought the letter opener down like a dagger and stabbed the summons three times, damaging the surface of the antique desk House had had refinished for her. She then swept files, a pen holder and a photograph of Lucas. Rachel, and her onto the floor and began to carve up the smooth surface, imagining it was House's face.

She wasn't allowed to do too much more damage because two stronger arms came from behind her and grabbed her wrists, shaking her left hand until she dropped the letter opener; it fell with a thud to the carpeted floor. She fought like a trapped animal against the owner of those arms but whoever it was happened to be too strong and she gave up. She was spun around by this person to look into the face of Robert Chase, who looked at her with astonishment and concern. His eyes searched her face with clinical detachment.

Feeling suddenly lightheaded Cuddy felt her knees fail as she passed out.

**(~*~)**

It was nine o'clock on the nose when Dr. Eric Foreman sauntered into his office. He set his briefcase down long enough to hang his leather jacket on the coat tree and then proceeded with it to his desk. It was neat, clean and organized, unlike the way its previous user had kept it. In fact, next to nothing in the office was the way it had been when House occupied it. The ugly patient chairs had been replaced with rich mahogany leather tub chairs, the ugly couch had been replaced with one that actually had style and House's hideous yellow Eames chair had been hauled out and was probably part of some landfill project by now. Accent lamps were placed strategically to give off the feel of suave sophistication. The name on the glass door had finally been changed to read his name instead of his predecessor's; this time he wasn't the fill-in, the 'acting-head' of Diagnostic Medicine—he was THE head and even though it was just him and Chase right now, Remy would be back eventually and when the financial picture for PPTH stabilized he would be able to hire at least one more doctor for his staff.

Life was finally heading in the right direction. After years of being picked on and antagonized by that son of a bitch House it was now his turn to prove that he was just as good of a diagnostician as the old gimp had been, if not better, because this time he had a fair chance. He wasn't just a placeholder for a lunatic waiting for the moment when said lunatic would limp though the door and turn things upside down around him. Sure, there had been that unfortunate error with the young mother of two, but it had been an honest error. Everything had pointed perfectly to aplastic anemia. Time had been of the essence and he'd had to make an executive decision. She died. Patients died all the time and while it was unpleasant it was, nonetheless, just part of the job. If Chase had only had the balls to go with his theory sooner the results of the culture screens would have returned sooner, pointing out the fungal infection as the source of her illness before things became critical and the irradiation would have been avoided. That was typical of Chase; he was lazy and completely lacking in vision. That's why he was still the employee, the grunt and Foreman was the one in charge.

Sure, the woman's family was upset—they were bound to be upset over the tragic death of their loved one—and they were pushing for a formal investigation into the case but given time they would come to accept her death as simply part of life and move on. It was nothing to worry about and that's exactly what he'd told Cuddy when she had called him into her office the day after the death. Besides, it wasn't like Chase would testify against him at a formal inquiry; the odds were stacked in Foreman's favor and the intensivist/surgeon knew which side of the toast was buttered and who buttered it. If all else failed, Foreman had the trump card—Dibala. He didn't want to use the genocidal African dictator's murder at the hands of the intensivist (whom felt he was saving the lives of countless others slated to be killed by the mad man) because things could get a little dicey for him for a while too, but a good lawyer would be able to get him immunity of some kind in exchange for all of the goods he had on Chase concerning Dibala's 'untimely' death. That and the fact that he and Chase had been good friends at one point before the latter had become jealous of Foreman's promotion.

Foreman started his computer and checked his inbox to find a message from Dr. Jeffrey Granger, the current chairman of the hospital board. An emergency meeting had been called by him to address certain issues that had arisen recently including but not restricted to the staffing shortage, nurses' strike and lawsuits filed against the hospital. Foreman was being asked to attend to provide testimony to the board. That sounded a little ominous and he wondered if it had anything to do with the loss of _his_ patient. He wasn't pleased about taking time out of his day for this; he had the D&D to prepare for and Chase was not helping in the least. The diagnostics head had a good mind to fire him but with the staffing shortages and both Taub and Thirteen gone he couldn't afford to lose Chase as well. That would make things too tempting for Cuddy to decide to shut down the department altogether to save money for the hospital. A call from the board was not something to be ignored however, so Foreman resigned himself to attending.

After checking the rest of his mail Foreman went to the differential room to make a pot of coffee. He'd stopped using the pre-ground crap House had preferred and brought in his own whole bean Fair Trade gourmet roast Kenyan Arabica brew. He ground it fresh right there with the grinder he'd purchased for the office for the best flavor. For Foreman, that's what was important—having and being the best or at least the appearance thereof if the best wasn't possible. He looked up when the phone in his office rang. He set the coffee filter down and strode to the phone.

"Dr. Foreman," he answered simply.

"It's Chase," came the voice on the other end of the line. "I'm in the ER. I need a discreet neuro consult on the double."

"Is it a case?" Foreman inquired, raising an eyebrow. "Because if not then I don't have time right now—"

"Foreman, it's Cuddy," Chase told him, cutting him off quickly. He sounded both concerned and impatient. "I'd rather involve a minimum number of people for obvious reasons."

"I'll be right down," Foreman told him, his attitude doing a one-eighty as soon as he heard who the patient was. He hung up and made his way downstairs as quickly as he could without it appearing like he was rushing to an emergency. The ER attending had been sharp enough to put the Dean of Medicine into a special treatment room. Foreman arrived there and knocked lightly on the door before walking into the room (which had solid walls rather than curtains or glass in order to isolate it from the rest of the treatment bay).

Upon arrival he found Cuddy lying on a treatment bed, head inclined, with a nasal cannula taped to her face and connected to leads. The monitor above her head showed a slightly depressed heart rate and elevated BP. She looked very annoyed with her flushed face, frown and arms crossed defiantly in front of her. However she was quiet as Chase waited in a chair for the neurologist/diagnostician.

"What happened?" Foreman demanded, grabbing Cuddy's chart from Chase and looking it over.

"Nothing, really," Cuddy told him irritably. "I lost my temper and had a sudden increase in BP that caused me to faint. Dr Chase is being ridiculous."

Foreman exchanged a look with Chase and then smiled slightly. "_Hypo_tension is associated with syncope, not _hyper_tension. It says here in your chart that just before you fainted you were discovered in a state of overwhelming emotional expression in the form of—" he paused a moment, doing a double-take at the notes jotted down in front of him, "—screaming and stabbing your desk with a letter opener?"

"I don't recall that," Cuddy answered quietly, tossing her hair over her shoulder and avoiding Foreman's gaze.

"I do," Chase told Foreman while staring at Cuddy pointedly. "I saw the events in the lobby as well as inside your office." He went on to describe to his immediate superior what all he'd witnessed. Foreman listened with fascination, frowning. He had difficulty believing what he was hearing but had to admit to himself that Cuddy's behavior over the past few months had been increasingly impulsive and unusual for her. He had attributed it to House, other stresses at work, and perhaps problems in her personal life but now he wasn't certain those were the only factors at work.

Foreman grabbed a stool and sat down next to the bed. He found blank forms in the file and pulled a pen out of his lab coat pocket. He began to jot a few observations down and then began to take a history from his boss.

"Dr. Cuddy, have you noticed anything unusual lately in your physical or emotional health?" Foreman began.

"This is ridiculous!" Cuddy told them both before the symptoms could be listed off, rolling her eyes. She began to remove the nasal cannula when Chase stepped in and took her hand gently but firmly.

"Either you cooperate or I report my suspicions of a medical issue to the board today," the intensivist told her seriously. Foreman recognized the blackmail and knew it was probably the only tactic that would keep Cuddy from leaving.

"What do you mean?—the board doesn't convene again until the week after next," Cuddy responded, puzzled.

"You obviously haven't checked your inbox yet today," Foreman told her. "Dr. Granger has called an emergency meeting for this afternoon. I've been called to testify—to what, I have no idea. Apparently Chase has as well."

Chase nodded in confirmation. "But don't worry, Dr. Cuddy," he told her, "there's plenty of time for a neuro exam before then."

"Are you out of your mind?" Cuddy exclaimed. "I have to go find out what the meeting is about, I have to prepare for it, juggle my schedule—I can't do this right now. Besides, there's nothing wrong with me that murdering House while he sleeps wouldn't fix!" Before Chase or Foreman could stop her she leapt off of the bed and tore the cannula off of her face, wincing as the tape pulled on the tiny hairs of her upper lip. She quickly located her heels and slipped them on. She took two steps toward the door before her left leg buckled followed quickly by her right, as if her legs simply lost all strength and couldn't bear her weight. Foreman caught her before she hit the floor and simply picked her up and put her back onto the bed. He pulled a pen light out of his pocket and ran it over her eyes, checking the reactivity of her pupils before reaching into a nearby drawer and pulling out an otoscope.

"I'm, sorry, Dr. Cuddy," Foreman told her but his body language and tone of voice belied that. "Your body is giving clear signals that your preparations will have to wait." He looked into her eyes with the scope, checking her retinas and observing muscular reactivity to movement and light. He looked up at Chase. "Take a look at this," he told the other doctor, handing him the otoscope. Chase checked her eyes himself.

"I see it," he agreed. "Definite retinal distension in her left eye. Intercranial pressure increase?"

"Looks like," Foreman agreed. "Also, the delayed reactivity of her pupils, particularly in the right eye."

"Intercranial pressure increase?" Cuddy echoed. "What are you talking about? What's that?"

Foreman and Chase exchanged looks again. Both of them knew that Cuddy should understand what they were talking about but she looked genuinely perplexed.

"Cuddy," Foreman said, "you're showing symptoms of neurological abnormalities. I need to run a neuro exam on you and I need you to cooperate. If you do, you'll get out of here sooner."

She looked first to Foreman and then to Chase, with blank grey-blue eyes but didn't argue. The neurologist took this as consent to continue.

"Have you been noticing anything unusual in your health and functioning lately?" Foreman asked her again, picking up the chart again.

"Uh," she answered, frowning as she concentrated. "Nothing, really. I've got a headache."

"Describe it," she was instructed.

"I don't know," she shrugged vaguely. "I've had it pretty much steady for the last month or so. It started as dull and achy but lately it's been worse in intensity and it's started to wake me up in the middle of the night."

"How often have you been awakened by a headache in the past month?" was the next question.

"Uh…about four times a week for the past two weeks," she replied flatly. "It's worse when I first lie down or sit up and first thing in the mornings. It's stress, Foreman. Nothing more."

"And I suppose having your legs give out beneath you is stress, too?" Chase asked her dryly. "And sudden wide-shifting mood swings as well?"

"I don't sleep well from the stress," Cuddy said tensely, glaring at the Australian. "I'm exhausted. I've been too busy to eat or drink properly. That's all it is."

"Perhaps," Foreman agreed smoothly, trying to calm her, "but it's better to be safe than sorry." He looked at Chase pointedly. "Go book an X-Ray room and a CT."

In return he got an eye roll from the other man as he walked past him and out of the room. The head of diagnostics was going to have to have a talk with his employee about his bad attitude later. He returned to the exam. "We've already noted muscle ataxia and mood swings as well as headache. How about other neurological symptoms, like vertigo, loss of balance, incoordination…?"

"Yes," she agreed reluctantly. "Sometimes the room seems to spin a little or I feel like I'm falling over. I've been a little clumsy too. Then again, I was clumsy throughout my teenage years and still from time to time, but it's been worse lately—but those can be explained by stress, insomnia and dehydration, all things I admit are more than likely."

Nodding, Foreman told her, "I'd have you stand and then walk a line so I could watch your gait but I don't want to risk having your legs give out again so we'll wait on that. What about muscle weakness in other parts of your body?"

"My arms," the Dean of Medicine admitted with a weak smile. "either that or Rachel has put on a lot of hidden weight recently."

Foreman nodded, marking that down. While he was at it he began to grade her on the Glasgow Coma Scale.

"Okay, how about any problems with your vision or hearing, speech difficulties or increased sensitivity to light?"

"My vision is blurry sometimes," she admitted. "But I _am_ in my forties. I actually scheduled an eye exam for a couple of weeks from now."

The neurologist acknowledged that with a nod and then stood up and approached her.

"I'm going to take a look at your head and neck for any physical abnormalities. Have you felt any exterior pain in the regions of your head or neck?"

He began to feel her skull and then neck including her glands. There were no physical malformations that he could detect. "Have you had a head injury of any kind recently? Perhaps bumped your head on something or was hit by something?"

"I bumped it lightly against the door to the clinic earlier, but it not much more than a tap," she related. "Other parts of my body took most of the abuse. No other injuries."

"Nothing hit you at the crane site?" Foreman double-checked, referring to the Trenton disaster.

"No," she insisted. "Nothing."

"Have you had any infections recently that have or have not been treated?"

"I don't have syphilis or herpes, Foreman," Cuddy snapped, glaring up at him. "No infections, period."

"Any unexplained fever or chills? Neck or back pain?"

"No."

"What about changes in appetite? Any nausea or vomiting?"

"I…I haven't been feeling the best recently," she answered vaguely, looking away from him.

Foreman sighed. One thing House had been right on was the fact that patients and patients' families lie about, obfuscate and/or omit something embarrassing but important information nearly every time, and doctors were no exception. Uncooperative behavior of this manner could also be an indication of either neurological or psychiatric disease.

"Meaning, exactly?" he pressed, working hard to hide his frustration and control his tongue. She was his boss and he didn't want to piss her off any more than necessary.

She appeared to be unwilling to answer that and then answered grudgingly, "I've been experiencing all three. I thought that I might be pregnant but I'm not."

Noting these things on the chart he continued his questioning. "How often are you vomiting and with what frequency each day?"

"Pretty much once or rarely twice a day."

"For how long now?"

"Three weeks. I can only keep food down during the day so I might get in lunch and keep it but not much else. Even then I'm not really hungry when I eat," Cuddy answered. "And before you ask—yes, I have lost about five pounds in the past month. It's nothing serious."

"Not yet," the neurologist agreed conditionally. "Are you using any prescription, OTC or recreational drugs and if so, which ones, how much and how often?"

"'Recreational'?" she scoffed. "I have the occasional social drink but I don't use recreational drugs. I'm currently fitted with a Mirena IUD and I haven't used any OTCs besides ibuprofen for my headaches—and the ibuprofen doesn't help much at all."

"Okay," he agreed. "Any past neurological problems yourself or family history of neurological disease?"

"My paternal grandfather developed dementia later in life but he was seventy-two when he became symptomatic," she answered, shrugging. "My cousin on my mom's side had a subarachnoid hemorrhage as a result of an undiagnosed aneurysm when she was thirty. She died from it. Do you suspect that I might have a cerebral aneurysm?"

Foreman shrugged. "It's a possibility. It's too early to rule in or rule out anything."

Both of them looked up when Chase returned to the room with a fundoscope and was followed by a technician with an electroencephalogram machine.

"I have the CT booked for ten-thirty and X-Ray can take her anytime for the next two hours," Chase told his boss and his boss's boss. "I figured you'd need these."

The neuro exam continued for the next half an hour with Foreman testing her reflexes, muscle tone and strength, dysmetria, and dysdiadochokinesis and employed Romberg's test followed by checking her coordination by having her close her eyes and attempting to touch the index finger on each hand to her nose. He used a reflex hammer to examine her reflexes at the masseter, biceps and triceps tendons, knee tendon, watched for the ankle jerk and Bobinski (plantar) sign. She was given an EEG, a fundoscopy was performed on her eyes and then she was taken down by wheelchair the back way to Radiology and Diagnostic Imaging for the head and spine x-rays and CT scan. After that there was nothing to do but return her to the ER, wait for results to be produced, and discuss her exam results and responses as well as the EEG.

The conclusion was that it was some form of mass or body occupying space in her brain, likely in the frontal lobe that was causing the intracranial pressure that would account for most of the symptoms she was presenting. Foreman favored a cerebral aneurysm whereas Chase's bet was on a tumor of the frontal lobe on her dominant hemisphere of the brain, which just happened to be her right hemisphere (she was left-handed). Cuddy was kept under observation in the ER for the time being in spite of her protestations and Foreman contacted Lucas.

Chase, on the other hand, made a call to House from the DDx room at lunch when Foreman was at the cafeteria. He dialed St. Luke's and was transferred over to House's room. Even in his sickbed he was going to extract a consult out of the diagnostician. The intensivist described Cuddy's symptoms, the results of the neuro exam and tox screen and the differential he and Foreman had conducted. He did _not_, however, mention who their patient was. He had to protect Cuddy's right to confidentiality.

"Foreman suspects an aneurysm," Chase told him. "My money is on a frontal lobe tumor, perhaps an anaplastic astrocytoma or a blastocytoma if I'm right."

"Tell me you really put money on this," House demanded, "and cut me in for what you're in for. Of course you'll need the CT results to confirm. Get a hold of Wilson."

"He didn't show today," Chase told him, "but I'll get Brown instead."

"I thought he was finishing out his cases and prepping Brown to take over?" House asked; he sounded impassive but Chase guessed that he wasn't really. He didn't know what was going on between the friends but there had to be something. Wilson wasn't there for House when he came out of surgery which was strange to say the least. It was none of his business but his curiosity was peaked nonetheless.

"I thought so too," Chase told him. "Actually I was thinking about checking on him after work, make certain everything is okay."

"He's a big boy," was all House said to that, again with the nearly overdone lack of emotion. "He can look after himself."

"Right," Chase replied. "Well, I'm going to go hunt down those films. Bye, House." Before Chase could hang up he heard House say something quickly and put the receiver back up to his ear. "What was that again?"

"I said," House repeated, sounding irritated, "let me know what's up with Wilson when you know. Also, if Cuddy refuses to accept the diagnosis or treatment, get a psych consult. Chances are her judgment skills have been affected as well and Lucas may have to take over the decision-making, as terrifying as that prospect is. I assume Lucas has been contacted?"

Chase shook his head in amazement and stared at the phone for a moment. He hadn't said anything that he thought House could trace back to Cuddy and yet somehow the diagnostician had figured it out anyway. The way House could do that was positively creepy sometimes!

"I can't confirm or deny anything," Chase told him carefully, imagining House rolling his eyes just then, "except that the medical proxy holder has been notified and is arranging childcare so he can come up to see the patient. I'll contact Psychiatry as soon as I'm off the phone with you and get Foreman's approval."

"Handed in your resignation letter yet?" House asked, sounding more chipper when he said it than he did before. That made Chase smile slightly.

"Tonight, before I leave," Chase told him.

"Good," the diagnostician answered and then hung up without saying anything further. The intensivist shook his head, his smile broadening. He was replacing the receiver on its cradle when Foreman returned with a paper sack from the cafeteria in one hand and the X-ray and CT films in the other.

"Have you already previewed those?" the intensivist asked his supervisor, nodding to the films.

"Not yet," Foreman answered with a shake of his head. "Why?"

Chase said to the other doctor, "What do you say to double or nothing?"

Foreman smirked arrogantly in response. "You're on!" he responded, setting everything down on the conference table. "Who was that on the phone?"

"Just a friend," Chase answered casually, flashing a smug smile of his own. "Now let's take a look."

Ten minutes later Chase was on the phone to oncology followed immediately after by a call to Psych, five hundred dollars richer; Foreman retreated to his office to eat his lunch alone and mope.

**(~*~)**

Wilson arrived at the hospital for the afternoon and caught word of Chase's request for a consult. When the oncologist entered the DDx room he found Chase and Foreman arguing over some philosophical tenet. When the intensivist noticed his arrival he smiled and looked almost relieved, which Wilson found a little disconcerting. Foreman's face remained serious as he turned on a light board and clipped up the X-ray films and next to them the CT results. He looked carefully for a few minutes before coming to his conclusion.

"It's definitely a malignancy, aplastic astrocytoma, I'd say. I estimate stage two, maybe three. A resection and pathology study will confirm the histology of the tumor. It's still small enough for removal," Wilson told them. "Is this a new case of yours?"

Foreman and Chase exchanged knowing looks which piqued the oncologist's curiosity.

"Of sorts," Foreman told him. Technically Wilson's official consult gave him room to defend himself for revealing the patient's identity. "It's Cuddy."

Wilson felt as if someone had just sucker punched him. His lower jaw dropped with his surprise. Lisa Cuddy had brain cancer? He thought about that for a moment. It certainly did explain the inconsistencies in and erratic nature of her behavior lately. The onset of the symptoms could have begun over a year ago and slowly intensified and altered as the tumor grew. She was in the right age bracket. He felt a knot form in his stomach. The woman he'd considered a friend at one point could have done most of the horrible things she had over the last year under the influence of a disease she had no control over. Knowing that made him feel guilty for the hateful thoughts and feelings he'd been harboring. Now he felt concerned, afraid for her and for Rachel. She had a potential death sentence growing in her head that was affecting her higher cognitive functioning including her judgment and impulse control.

"I want to be there when you tell her," Wilson told Foreman somberly. The African-American doctor nodded in agreement. They were about to head to the ER when Foreman's pager went off. He looked at it and an angry frown crossed his features. He tried to hide it but couldn't completely. Whatever the issue was, it was upsetting House's replacement more than he would be willing to admit.

"I can't go down to tell her," Foreman told them, shaking his head. There was tension in his voice that he appeared to be trying to mask. "I have something I have to attend to. Chase will accompany you."

Wilson looked over to Chase. The Australian doctor shrugged and nodded. Foreman left the DDx room like a bat out of hell and the other doctors made their way down to the Emergency room.

"I'm glad you made it in today," Chase told him. "I don't know Brown all that well."

"He's an excellent oncologist," Wilson assured him with a smile. "Cuddy made a good decision when she chose to promote internally and gave him the department. You'll have to get used to working with him; I'm not going to be here much longer."

"Actually," Chase said, "I'm not going to be at PPTH too much longer either."

Wilson gave him a look of surprise. "Is Foreman that difficult to work for?"

The younger doctor chuckled ruefully. "Yes. But I've also received a job offer with a promotion and increase in salary. Considering the working conditions here, it's an offer I can't refuse."

Wilson couldn't help the surge of envy he felt upon hearing that and had to make a concerted effort to tamp it down. "Congratulations. Give me details."

They reached the elevator and Chase pressed the call button. "The offer came from House," he said simply.

Instantly the envy changed to jealousy and Wilson had to take a few breaths as discreetly as possible to control his emotions. He forced a smile onto his face, hoping it looked believable.

"That's…great. So you'll be working for him again—I find it a little surprising that you'd rather work for him than Foreman," Wilson commented.

Shrugging, Chase replied to that, "House isn't all that bad. You have to know when to shut up and when to speak up and be brutally honest with him. That, and let his venom roll off your back; it's usually because he's having a bad leg day when he's at his worst."

The oncologist was taken aback by the intensivist's insight into the diagnostician. Wilson thought he was the only one who understood that about his best friend. Again the jealousy reared its ugly head.

"So you'll be doing what you do now, I take it?" the older doctor asked as the elevator doors opened, depositing them on the second floor.

"Actually, he's making me his second in command," Chase informed him. "He has to hire several doctors for his staff seeing as he's going to be forming more than one team to handle a larger patient load. I'll be helping him with the hiring and will lead one of the teams. He'll be leading his own team and supervising the others. So it's also a promotion. It's quite exciting, actually. The diagnostics department at St. Luke's will have its own ward and isolation unit as well as a fully functioning and equipped lab; in fact, the Chief Administrator there recently received a donation that was specified to be used for the purchase of an MRI for the new diagnostics department. House is pumped—of course he'd never admit to that, though."

Wilson's smile faded. He was happy for House, truly he was, but sadness filled him, too. He should be there with him, enjoying seeing the excitement in the diagnostician's eyes, witnessing his passion as he worked on the development of the department. Instead he was here, drifting meaninglessly with no idea what he was going to do next with his life, spending every night alone in that huge empty loft apartment drinking himself stupid until he passed out, often in a pool of his own puke. He knew his drinking was getting out of hand; having a bottle in his locked desk drawer was more than convincing evidence of that, but it was the only thing that kept him from going mad from his loneliness, resentment and fear. The fear was perhaps the worst part.

He'd received one response from a small hospital in Camden that morning. It was a good hospital with a sound reputation looking for an Oncology chief but somehow he couldn't help but think that it was a definite step down from what he'd been doing at PPTH. At his age he wasn't excited about a step backwards in his career. He knew that if House knew about the position he'd be pushing Wilson to accept it so they could be together. So why didn't he accept the job, at least for the time being until something a little more appealing presented itself? He could start as early as July and that would give him time to settle up things in Princeton, sell (or at least rent out) the loft apartment and move to Philadelphia before he went back to work. He wouldn't have to be alone anymore. He could be sharing his thoughts and feelings with House as they cuddled on the sofa watching a movie and make love with him every night and fall asleep in his arms. Why did he remain where he was in his misery when he could have happiness instead?

Why? Because he was terrified, that's why, and every time he tried to reason the fear away it only got stronger and overwhelmed him. The worst part was that he didn't even know what he was afraid of.

"So," Chase said as the elevator deposited them into the hospital lobby and they walked side by side to the ER, "what are your plans when you're done here?"

"I'm going to take some time off; I've sent my CV around and we'll see what that presents. I have no firm plans made yet," Wilson told the younger doctor without enthusiasm.

Chase nodded without comment, looking a little uncomfortable. "I went to visit House after his surgery," Chase told Wilson mildly. "He was sarcastic and cranky."

"So doing well then," Wilson commented with a slight smile. It was ironic that when House was in a good mood he acted the same way other people did when they were miserable. "How did you find him?"

"I used a little common sense and a lot of finagling but after a few phone calls I located him," Chase answered. "His surgery went as well as it could have and he sounded rather chipper when I called him today. He's going to be released on Wednesday and since he's technically discharged from Mayfield today he'll be moving immediately into his new place. I offered to help him move. He's mobile, but quite painfully, and a home care nurse will be going to his place every day to help him with his dressings and personal care and to assist him with his physiotherapy regimen for the next few weeks. He's hoping the nurse is a good looking ginger with the hands of an angel. I told him that with his luck he'll get a sixty-year old overweight spinster with hair growing out of her chin at which point he kicked me out of his room."

Wilson noticed the fond expression on the younger doctor's face and irrationally he found himself feeling jealous of him again. Ridiculous images of House and Chase in bed fucking played across the oncologist's mind's eye and he had to literally close his eyes to force them away. He was being ridiculous and needed to get a grip.

The two doctors arrived at the special treatment room to fine Cuddy lying on the bed frowning impatiently and Lucas Douglas standing next to her, trying to hold her hand only to have her snatch it away from him and fix him with a death glare. The oncologist sighed. The moment of truth for Dr. Lisa Cuddy had just arrived.


	29. Chapter 29 Part 2 Ch 17

**Resurrection**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** This is a long chapter full of info. This will be the last chapter devoted to the goings-on at PPTH. There may be a brief scene here or there concerning the hospital in Princeton but this is basically it for this story. Next Chapter we return to House. No Beta for this so please forgive the mistakes that I missed as I read it through.** Rating Change Notice: (see below). **

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **M **(for future smut)

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Seventeen: Monday, June 7, 2010; 1:16 P.M.**

Lisa Cuddy glared at Wilson the moment he entered the room with Chase. The oncologist wondered if it was because she knew he was there to tell her it was cancer or because she hadn't expected to see him standing there. Either way, she didn't look pleased. Lucas, on the other hand, looked positively nauseous when he saw Wilson. The PI was a psychopathic jerk and an idiot, but obviously not so stupid that he couldn't figure out why an oncologist had joined Chase. He didn't know why but Wilson almost felt sorry for him; the younger man obviously cared a great deal about Cuddy and feared for her. It wasn't enough to evoke true sympathy from the oncologist, however. He hated Lucas for the way he'd endangered House's well-being and even his life.

"Dr. Cuddy, Lucas," Chase addressed, nodding politely at the Dean of Medicine's fiancé. The way the younger doctor's back stiffened it was obvious he wasn't fond of the PI either. "We have the results from your head x-ray and CT back. Foreman, Wilson and I reviewed the results and came to the conclusion that you have a three centimeter tumor on your posterior frontal lobe that is placing pressure on the brain tissue causing your neurological symptoms. The mass is a tumor."

Cuddy's eyes opened widely upon hearing Chase's words. Lucas tightened his grip on Cuddy's hand and looked like he was going to vomit. Wilson had seen these kind of reactions thousands of times over the years and while they didn't overwhelm him like they had when he was a resident he still hated them, hated the fear and the pain that cancer invariably brought with it. The fact that the expressions were on people he knew personally only made him angrier than it did when he had no link with the patient other than as the doctor.

"What kind?"Cuddy asked, her voice quiet and well-controlled. It quavered only the slightest bit from fear. "Is it malignant?"

"I'm reasonably certain that it's an anaplastic astrocytoma," Wilson told her. "I can't be certain of the stage of development until it's resected and the pathology studied by my best estimation is a solid stage two to stage three."

Cuddy had gasped as soon as the type of the tumor had been announced and a hand rose to her mouth. She closed her grey-blue eyes and remained that way for a few moments.

"What?" Lucas spoke up in confusion, looking at Cuddy and then at Wilson and Chase in turn. "What is this astronoma thing? Is it cancer? Is it serious?"

Wilson wanted to snottily tell him that cancer was always serious but managed to hold his tongue. He had to remind himself that while Cuddy was an M.D. her boyfriend was not.

"Anaplastic astrocytoma," Wilson corrected him calmly. "Yes, it's cancer and yes, it's _very_ serious."

"You mean deadly," Cuddy murmured, her voice remaining calm. She opened her eyes and while they were glassy no tears had formed or fallen.

"Not always," Wilson told her, always the optimist whether he truly felt optimistic or not. "I've had patients of mine go into remission in stage three before. There is some hope. However, if you were to go untreated starting immediately your likelihood of being alive a year from now is next to nil. The earlier any malignancy is identified and treated the greater the chance of remission and the longer the life expectancy. Unfortunately your tumor was diagnosed later in its development but aggressive treatment but remission is still possible with the immediate start of aggressive treatment."

"Your symptoms likely started one and a half to two years ago, since that's the average interval between early symptom onset and diagnosis. Your changes in personality, judgment and behavior could have begun much earlier than anyone would have noticed."

"How long do patients with these tumors live, on average?" Lucas demanded, looking more scared by the moment. "I mean, if they get treatment but it doesn't bring about remission?"

Cuddy listened in silence, staring off into middle space and away from the three men.

Sighing, Wilson answered carefully, "It's hard to say at this point. There are still quite a few details that have to be confirmed."

"Quit hedging, Wilson, for god's sake!" Cuddy shouted suddenly, her eyes flaring. The heart rate and blood pressure readings on the monitor jumped considerably. Another rage, another mood swing, Wilson silently identified.

"I'd estimate anywhere from a year to five years, more likely around two or three at the most since we will be initiating treatment later than is optimal," the oncologist told Lucas—and Cuddy—hurriedly. "Again, there's no way to be more accurate until as much of the tumor is resected as possible and a closer look at it is taken under a scope. I recommend you start treatment as soon as possible."

"What is the treatment regimen?" Cuddy asked, calmer again; Wilson could tell that she was working hard to remain civil and calm.

"The standard treatment involves a craniotomy, the resection of as much of the tumor as is possible followed by radiation of the tumor site and chemotherapy involving adjuvant temozdomide," Wilson answered. "Astrocytomas respond fairly well to this drug. To reduce and prevent further swelling of the affected tissues surrounding the tumor corticosteroids like dexamethasone are employed. Since the temozdomide is hard on the gastrointestinal lining prophylaxis medications are given to help prevent GI ulcers from forming including proton pump inhibitors or histamine inhibitors to OTC antacids."

"What did you mean when you would resect as much of the tumor as possible?" Lucas asked. "I know that resection means removal, but why wouldn't you take the entire tumor and get it over with?"

"Of course the surgeon tries to remove it all but there is a special characteristic of anaplastic tumors that makes it extremely difficult if not impossible to remove all of it without doing undue damage to the brain itself." Wilson explained. "See, think of it in the following terms: this type of tumor doesn't remain completely differentiated from the brain tissue around it. It has tentacle-like cell structures that reach down into and invade the surrounding tissue much like the rhizomes of a mold grow into the bread instead of sitting on the surface of it. Once this happens it's impossible to separate these tentacle-like structures from healthy brain cells. As much of the tumor as possible is removed and any of those tentacles that can't be separated from the good tissue have to be destroyed by other means. In this case, focused radiation therapy and anti-cancer drugs or chemotherapy for short, are used. It's this aspect that makes it difficult to completely destroy the cancer and thus makes these tumors more deadly."

This left both Cuddy and Lucas speechless for a minute or two as they each processed what they had been told and allowed it to sink in. After a little while Cuddy shook her head. "What about Rachel?" she murmured. "She already lost one mom…now she's going to lose another and when she's my age she won't remember either one of us."

Wilson had to look away, then. The impact was finally just hitting him, too. It wasn't just about Cuddy becoming gravely ill and likely dying far too young or Lucas losing his fiancé; a toddler was going to be left motherless. What would become of her? Would Lucas take custody? Would Cuddy even allow that to happen? He was reminded again why he became an oncologist; he wanted to kick cancer's ass as much and as often as he could because of the way it had of destroying the lives of people outside of his patients alone. He was usually on the losing side of the fight but there were those times, precious few as they were, that cancer lost; those victories kept him from falling into despair.

Chase suddenly turned quite pale and excused himself curtly, practically fleeing the room. The oncologist frowned with concern and curiosity. He excused himself as well and followed after the intensivist/surgeon catching up with him just as the younger man dodged into the men's room. What was wrong with him? Was he sick or something?

Wilson found him at a sink splashing cold water on his face and then standing over the sink and staring into the mirror as the tap continued to run. The older man reached over and turned off the tap then grabbed several paper towels and proffered them. Chase didn't look at him when he accepted them and began to dry his face and neck.

"Thanks," the Australian mumbled, looking downward. "Sorry about that."

"Don't…worry about it," Wilson told him mildly, shaking his head slightly. "Giving that kind of news is never easy—and it doesn't get any easier."

"It's not that," Chase told him. He took a deep breath from his diaphragm and then released it explosively, expelling stress and frustration with the air. "It just reminded me of things…like the patient that died leaving two sons behind. There was no reason for it. No noble purpose. Nothing. Just one great big mistake and those kids will never grow up with their mum around for them; now Rachel Cuddy will grow up without _her_ mum." He shook his head and sighed silently, looking up to meet Wilson's eyes. "In a way, I grew up without a mum who was there for me when I needed her and a father who didn't give a damn about me and who I almost never saw. I know exactly how badly that can fuck a person up."

There was nothing Wilson (or anyone else) could say to that without it sounding shallow. He remained silent for a moment and then gave Chase a light punch on the side of the arm.

"Why don't you get a coffee or something before the board meeting," he told Chase. "I'll go finish up with Cuddy and Lucas and I'll see you there."

Chase nodded. "Thanks, Wilson." He strode out of the bathroom. Wilson looked into the mirror and faced down the man staring back at him. He knew what it was he would do. Decision made, he headed back to the treatment room. Lucas was pacing beside Cuddy's bed and she looked completely worn out.

"I want you to stay on at PPTH," the Dean of Medicine told the oncologist firmly. "I want you to be my oncologist. I need you to remain here."

Wilson had expected this. He pressed him lips into a straight line and then slowly shook his head no. "I'm sorry, Cuddy," he told her honestly, "but I'm moving on. I've been offered a job in Camden. I think I'm going to take it."

Frowning with disappointment and frustration, Cuddy echoed, "Camden? Why? I can offer you much more than they can in Camden. Besides, I need you."

Shrugging, he answered her. "I'm moving to Philadelphia, to be with House. _I_ need _him_ and I think he needs me, too."

"You two can get together to hang out from time to time," Cuddy told him, dismissing what he had said with the wave of her hand. "Your friendship will survive, but I'm _dying_ and I need the best oncologist on staff."

"Yeah you can't just leave!" Lucas interjected angrily. "Lisa is your friend!"

"So is House," Wilson told him firmly.

"But he's a lunatic!" Lucas spat. "He's not the one dying here!"

Wilson lunged as if to grab the PI by the collar to beat the shit out of him for the comment about House but stopped himself just in time. That pissant wasn't worth risking an assault charge over, he decided, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists. He took a deep breath to calm himself down.

"I'm at risk of losing him because I've been too scared to allow myself to publically be open about us," Wilson told both Cuddy and Lucas. "House and I have finally admitted that we're in love with each other and I've spent enough time away from him for no good reason. I'm going to change that. I'm moving to Philadelphia to be with him."

After he finished speaking Wilson felt like he was going to start to laugh and nearly did. The release of tension he'd experienced felt overwhelmingly incredible. It was out—_he_ was out—and he finally felt right with himself.

Both Cuddy and Lucas stared at Wilson like he'd just grown two extra heads with three horns on each head. Lucas began to scowl and Cuddy looked as if she was about to laugh.

"What the hell are you talking about, Wilson?" she demanded, outraged. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Wilson set his jaw and stuck his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. He met her gaze with a steady one of his own. "I'm not kidding. It's no joke," he told her resolutely.

"You mean," Lucas sneered, "you two really _are_ fags?"

"No," Cuddy insisted. "No, you can't be. This is one of House's juvenile, asinine jokes that he convinced you to go along with to get back at me, isn't it? Come on, Wilson! Admit it!"

"Yes, Cuddy," Wilson responded cynically, his brown eyes flashing angrily. "It's has to be a joke because everybody in this hospital—hell, in this state—is out to get you. Everything is about you, isn't it? It always has been. The sad thing is your incredible narcissism can't even be blamed on your tumor because you've always been a narcissist! House and I are in love. It has absolutely nothing to do with you! We've been in love with each other for a long time but neither of us was willing to admit to it until just recently."

"But he's straight, I know he is!" she protested; now appearing more dismayed than angry or mocking. "He was in love with Stacy and they were together for years! He pursued me for years until I made it clear to him that there would never be anything between him and me! Wilson _you're_ not gay! You've been married three times and then there was Amber—"

"Three _failed_ marriages and Amber died before it was possible to predict whether or not we would have lasted," the oncologist pointed out. "Sam and I didn't last the second time around, either. I kicked her out weeks ago! Yet House and I have been to hell and back several times together and we're still best friends!"

"But House isn't gay!" the Dean of Medicine insisted in a shout.

"He's not straight either," Wilson told her. "For that matter, neither am I. Think about it Cuddy! It's got a name that starts with a 'B'…."

"You're bisexual, Wilson?" Cuddy asked, lowering her voice.

"Apparently so," he told her with a nod. "That would make House bisexual, too."

"That is the sickest think I've ever heard in my life!" Lucas mocked loudly. "So the entire time House was staying with you after Mayfield you two were fucking each other-?"

"No," Wilson told him sharply. "We've only just allowed ourselves to be honest about the way we feel, not that it's any of your damned business, anyway!"

"I can't believe this," Cuddy said, staring at her hands folded in front of her and shaking her head repetitively. "I just can't believe this. House isn't even here and he's still fucking up my life!"

"House has never fucked up your life, Cuddy!" Wilson told her venomously, sick and tired of her blaming everything that has been going wrong in both her personal and professional lives on his best friend. "You've done that well enough on your own! It's time for you to grow up already! Now I will _not_ take you on as a patient. I recommend Dr. Brown. He's an excellent oncologist and if I had cancer he's the one I would trust with my treatment. If you like, I'll speak with him today about you. Now I have to go and get ready for the board meeting. I'll have a nurse bring you a wheelchair so you can attend if you feel up to it."

"Wilson!" Lucas called after the oncologist just before he could make his escape. Wilson turned back to face Lucas and see him point threateningly at him. "If you walk out of here without taking her case and she dies, I swear that I will make both you and House rue the days you were two were born!"

"Don't threaten me," Wilson replied, his voice much deeper and more threatening than usual. "You forget how much I have on you, Douglas! You stay clear, or I'll make certain criminal charges are laid for the property damage you caused to the loft and the assault you committed on House, and don't think I won't. You confessed in front of a room full of witnesses. So you stay the hell away from both of us!"

With that Wilson stormed out of the treatment room, never more grateful to be leaving those two psychos and the hell-pit PPTH had become.

**(~*~)**

Foreman entered the hospital chapel at a run and stopped short half way down the aisle. He had been sent on a wild goose-chase around the hospital; his page had been a 9-1-1 message to report to Cuddy's office. Upon getting there and of course finding Cuddy not there he had found a note taped to the glass door. Tearing it off in aggravation, he had read it. Briefly it had instructed him to 'hurry [his] ass' down to the morgue and not alert anyone if he didn't want to see someone he cared about become a resident there. He had still been of the opinion that this was nothing more than a sick practical joke but he'd had decided to do what the note said just in case it wasn't.

Down at the morgue there was no sign of a note but the pathologist on duty was waiting for him with a lecture about playing games in his department and another note. This one had upped the ante. It had told him to return to the lobby and to go to the information desk for the next note of instructions, only this note had bloody smudges all over it. The mortician had assured him that the blood hadn't been transferred to the paper by him. Foreman had then run the entire way to the lobby, taking the stairwell up rather than waiting for the elevator. The note at the information desk had directed him to the chapel.

Now he stood frozen in shock. Slumped on the stairs leading up to the lectern was a tall, slender African-American man who looked to be close to the neurologist's age, or perhaps a little older. He wore a blue button down shirt over a white T and a pair of blood-stained jeans. He had been hiding his face in a hand, his head bowed forward but upon hearing the sound of Foreman approaching at a run he looked up.

"Marcus?" Foreman said in horror, his eyes widening. His older brother looked at him from two heavily bruised eyes that were nearly but not quite swollen shut. His face was a mass of contusions and his lower left jaw looked like it was out of place, as if dislocated or broken and was swollen. Both his lower and upper lips were split and bleeding, but they didn't account for half of the blood dripping and oozing out of his mouth. The man's body hadn't faired any better than his face. Both shirts he wore were torn and bloodied and covered in dirt as if he'd been drug along the street behind a car. Perhaps he had been. His left arm had an unnatural bend outward; the humerus had obviously been snapped in two; the appendage hung limply at his side. Both of his hands were scratched and gouged at, cut and bruised and swollen, perhaps with broken fingers on each one. The worst thing was the sight of a large and growing bloodstain along the left-side of his torso.

The neurologist-turned-diagnostician rushed to his side and began to do a quick rundown of his injuries much closer up. He was afraid to touch his brother for fear of inflicting further pain on the man.

"What the hell happened?" Foreman demanded, his voice quavering as his normal cool, aloof façade fell apart leaving a frightened, trembling man behind.

"Hey, Eric," Marcus responded, but his words were barely intelligible as he forced them past his swollen lips, tongue and jaw. "Hey, calm down. I'm…I'm okay." His breathing was jagged and uneven.

"Shut the fuck up," the younger brother responded, shaking his head. He was closer to tears than he ever would have wanted anyone who worked at the hospital to see him. "You're not okay! Why didn't you go directly to the Emergency Room?"

"Cause the guys that jumped me didn't want to be seen dumpin' me there," Marcus mumbled, looking so weak that he could barely keep his head up far enough to meet Foreman's eyes. They threw me in a wheelchair an' covered me with a blanket and dumped me here before takin' off. Guess I should be glad…they brought me to the hospital at all. They could have left me in some alley or dumpster somewhere."

"Jesus," Foreman muttered, his hand going to the bloody stain at the older brother's side. There was a gaping stab wound bleeding out. Foreman tore off his lab coat and balled it up, pushing it up against the wound in an attempt to temporarily staunch the flow of blood. "You were mugged?"

"Not exactly," Marcus replied and then slumped as he continued to lose blood and strength.

"I'm going to go get help, Marcus," Foreman told him, placing a hand on his brother's head briefly in a comforting gesture. "I'll be right back!"

Marcus made a noise that sounded halfway between a snort and a cough, spraying saliva, blood and a tooth out of his mouth. "I'm not goin'…anywhere."

True to his word Foreman returned quickly with a mobile trauma team and a stretcher. After ensuring that there was no apparent jeopardy to Marcus's spinal cord Foreman helped members of the team lift his older brother onto the stretcher where the trauma team took over emergency care as they raced their patient to the ER via the main lobby. Chase was on his way from the cafeteria with a mochaccino in his hand heading toward the elevator when he saw them. He threw his nearly full drink into the trash to join Foreman and the trauma team.

"What happened?" Chase demanded, looking stunned.

"Somebody beat Marcus and stabbed him then had me paged to the chapel. I got there to find that whoever did this dumped him there and took off," Foreman told the Australian quickly without looking at him. He was filled with fear and anger, trembling from it. Whoever did this to his brother did it to intimidate—or punish?—the neurologist. He was paged with the idea that he would find Marcus and receive a message—but what exactly was the message? Obviously it was a malicious one but from whom and why?

"Marcus," Foreman asked him, looking down at the man's broken face. "Who did this to you? Did you know them?"

The wounded man shook his head slightly and looked up towards the source of the voice with glazed over eyes. "No, no…," He mumbled weakly through the air mask over his nose and mouth, "I don' know, Eric. Two Asian dudes…and an old white man. They did it, he watched."

"Did they tell you why they were doing it?"

"White dude…said it was…eye for an eye…Eric, what the fuck…eye for an eye?" Marcus was quickly fading, his words becoming even more slurred at he was losing consciousness. "Said you're a murderer so this was…justice. Eric…who'd you kill?"

"No one, Marcus," the younger brother told the other. His voice was breaking as his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. "Hold on, okay? You're going to be okay, just hold on!"

"Hold m'hand," Marcus told Foreman in a whisper which was nearly drowned out by the sound of the stretcher's wheels rolling over the floor and the normal noises of a busy hospital.

The neurologist did so, squeezing firmly. "Hold on," he continued to encourage.

"Hold m'hand, Eric," his brother begged, his eyes clouding over. "Please…."

Foreman exchanged a panicked look with Chase, who looked equally alarmed. "I _am_ holding your hand Marcus!"

"I can't feel…you," Marcus whispered. "I can't see…Eric. Eric?"

The stretcher slammed through the double swinging doors into the ER treatment bay to be greeted by staffers there.

Foreman swallowed the lump in his throat, fear seizing his heart. "Yes? Marcus?"

The stretcher was backed into a treatment bay and a nurse drew curtains around it as others set to work and Chase began to tend to the emergent care alongside the ER resident present. Another nurse gently tried to pull Foreman back from his brother's side to get him out of the way of the staff working on their patient but Foreman wouldn't be moved.

"I love you…Eric," Marcus murmured and his eyes rolled into his head.

"I love you!" Foreman returned immediately, his breath heaving as anguish began to escape him. When his brother went into v-fib and the monitor began to whine the neurologist nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Get him out of here!" Chase said briskly, without malice but imperatively. Two nurses now began to push Foreman out of the bay but he began to protest.

"I'm a doctor!" Foreman shouted angrily; he watched as a technician began to charge the defibrillator and Chase covered the paddles with conductive gel.

"You're _family_!" the Australian shouted the reminder without looking at him. "Go!"

Foreman surrendered to the nurses more out of sheer panic paralyzing him that Chase's assertion, though it did have something to do it. The curtain was opened enough for Foreman so he could watch from a few yards away as Chase and the ER staff hurried to save Marcus's life.

"Clear!" Chase commanded just before he placed the paddles onto the patient's chest and released the shot of electricity into his chest.

**Monday, June 7, 2010; 2:07 P.M.**

Wilson sat at the conference table in the board room, looking at his watch very much like the other board members had been doing since three o'clock had come and gone. There were people still missing who had been called to give testimony to the hospital board considering the issues that had prompted the emergency gathering in the first place. Wilson had already explained to Dr. Granger that Cuddy would most likely not attend due to emergency health issues, but respecting her right to privacy he hadn't elaborated except to add that it hadn't been avoidable. That didn't explain Foreman and Chase's continued absence. The oncologist had a feeling that something had happened, something bad, but he had nothing to base that on. It just wasn't like Foreman to be late for anything unless there was a damned good reason for it.

This was Wilson's last time sitting on the PPTH board. Years before, Vogler had forced Wilson off of the board because he'd committed the unpardonable crime of being friends with House, but shortly after Vogler had left with his millions of dollars he'd been reinstated and had served there continuously since. He didn't feel nostalgic, however. He was glad he wouldn't have to be part of the farce that was the governance of this institution any longer. That's why he was impatiently waiting for the meeting to be called to order. The sooner it was over, the better.

As he waited his mind wandered to House and the oncologist's decision to make things right with him by taking the job in Camden and moving to Philadelphia to be with him. For the first time in a long time he felt excited and enthusiastic about something. The Camden job wasn't a done-deal yet, but it might as well have been; from the tone of the correspondence Wilson had received and the reputation he had in the field there was little doubt about his obtaining the position, and it wasn't boastful to think so. However, until his name was signed on the dotted line Wilson wouldn't say anything to the diagnostician about it. He figured it would be cruel to the both of them to get their hopes up as if it was one-hundred percent certain only to have the unforeseeable occur and bring with it disappointment. He was going to contact the hospital right after the board meeting to arrange an interview with the chief administrator for as soon as possible.

In the meantime he planned on contacting Bonnie about putting the loft up for sale and making any other sundry arrangements for a move that he could make at that point in time. One way or another, he was going to be moving even if Camden did surprise him and fall through. He really wanted that move to be with House; time would tell.

There were murmurings from other members present to begin the meeting without Foreman and Chase and change the order on the agenda so if they arrived while the meeting was in session the two doctors would still be able to testify before the Question could be put to a vote. Just as Granger was about to do just that the door to the boardroom opened and Chase stepped in the room. Foreman wasn't with him.

The Australian doctor's appearance shocked Wilson. He looked disheveled like he'd just been putting out a great deal of physical effort on something. He was sweaty; his face was flushed and he breathed heavily. Every muscle in his body was tense as if he was prepared to fight or fly at any moment. The worst this was the dried blood stains on the cuffs of his lab coat and the evidence of blood-spray on the front of said coat and his green dress shirt.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Chase told the board, his voice sounding pained. There was a medical emergency. As a result Dr. Foreman won't be able to attend."

"_Another_ medical emergency?" Dr. Granger questioned, raising a skeptical eyebrow and glancing over at Wilson. "Has something happened to Dr. Foreman?"

The intensivist shook his head and sighed heavily. "No. His brother was brought into the ER a short while ago. He died while efforts were being made to treat him. That's why I'm late. Foreman's in no…condition right now to be attending this meeting."

The room was suitably silent as members looked amongst themselves in surprise and sympathy for the neurologist. Wilson felt sick to his stomach. He'd spoken to Marcus Foreman a couple of times a few months ago while he worked as an assistant to House before getting a job driving a truck for a courier company. The younger man had made his share of mistakes and bad decisions in life but in Wilson's opinion had been on his way up and out of that and appearing eager to make a better life for himself. The oncologist also thought about Eric, empathizing with him. He didn't want to think about what kind of impact the death of one of his own brothers would have on him.

"Is he going to be alright?" Wilson inquired, earning the rolling of several pairs of eyes. He knew what they were thinking: trust Dr. Wilson to worry about someone else's boo-boos. He didn't much care what they thought. House often said the same thing but Wilson knew that in House's case there was concern for the oncologist's emotional well-being underneath the teasing.

"I think so," Chase answered, shrugging. "He's taking it pretty hard, though."

Dr. Rutherford, one of the long-timers on the board, turned his silver-haired head to look at Granger who sat at the end of the conference table. "Jeffrey," he said, "if Drs. Cuddy and Foreman are unable to attend this meeting to speak in their own defense then I think it would be improper to discuss whether or not they should be terminated from their positions today."

"Wait a minute!" Wilson spoke up in surprise. "Terminated? Is that why we're meeting today?-because it would have been nice to have been informed of that in advance."

"There was no time to warn the board in advance," Granger told the oncologist impatiently. "Certain events have transpired in the past day that have precipitated the need to meet. Now, it is unfortunate that Dr. Cuddy and Dr. Foreman cannot be here but their presence isn't mandatory. We can make the decision in their absence and they will have the right to appeal the decision later if necessary."

"That's true," Wilson said bitterly, glaring at Granger. "After all, Dr. House wasn't here to defend himself when he was fired, so precedent has been established."

Granger returned Wilson's glare with a cold, smug smile ghosting across his lips. "Thank you, Dr. Wilson. I'm glad we agree. So at this time I call this meeting to order. We will begin with the reading of the minutes. Madam Secretary?"

As Mrs. Orland read the minutes from the last meeting Wilson glanced over to Chase. The younger doctor looked as disgusted as the older one felt. In fact, Chase looked like he was about to say something in anger. Instead of doing that, he just exhaled and muttered, "I'm fucking out of here!" He headed for the door when Granger called after him, annoyed.

"Dr. Chase, you are out of order! You have _not _been dismissed yet."

"I am not going to be a part of this kangaroo court deciding on the fate of two employees who are facing crisis situations right now and don't need to have this added to their problems!" the Australian doctor declared angrily. "You want to fire Cuddy? Why? Because she made some bad decisions and has been acting unprofessionally? She's not my favorite person right now either, but she's not fully responsible for her actions lately!"

"Chase!" Wilson snapped suddenly, giving the younger doctor a look of warning but to no avail.

"She's a very sick woman right now—!" Chase continued but was cut off by the opening of the doors to the room.

"Dr. Chase!" Lisa Cuddy said to him as Lucas pushed her in a wheelchair to her normal spot at the table. Wilson, who sat next to her, rose to his feet and moved the heavy chair that normally was placed there so she could be wheeled right up to the table. "Thank you for your attempt to speak on my behalf but I could hear you clear all the way at the other end of the corridor. I can speak for myself now."

His cheeks flushed slightly as he nodded and stepped back to stand silently in the periphery. All eyes were on Cuddy. She looked tired and pale but otherwise normal except for the fact that she was in a wheelchair.

"I apologize to the board for being late," Cuddy said to them moderately. "As Dr. Chase was about to say, I haven't been feeling very well. I'm here now, so why don't we continue with the meeting."

The minutes were read, and a motion was made to accept the minutes as read. It was seconded and the question was called. The motion passed unanimously. Next on the agenda were the officers' reports which ended up being very brief since no one had had enough warning to prepare adequately. A motion was made by Rutherford to table the old business until the next regular meeting of the board. It was seconded and passed. Next up was new business. That was introduced by Granger himself.

"As you all know," the chairman said, "there have been several serious issues that have arisen over the past month that can no longer be tabled or ignored and must be dealt with immediately by this board for the good of Princeton-Plainsboro."

Wilson half-listened as Granger went over the recent labor and financial crises that the hospital faced and how these events were caused by Cuddy. He then went on to describe the lawsuit House had filed against Cuddy and PPTH. This time he couldn't shift all of the blame onto Cuddy's shoulders but he made certain that everyone in the room knew he believed that to be the case. Then he brought up the lawsuit filed by Nurse Brenda, also for Wrongful Dismissal and finally the problem of Foreman's wrong decision that had caused one of his patient's death. Hospital lawyers were allowed to bear witness to the legal ramifications Cuddy and the hospital faced as well as the implications that a possible wrongful death suit and criminal investigation held for the hospital. Throughout all of this Cuddy sat silently and listened intently at what was being said about her, Foreman and the hospital. Her expression was stoic the entire time and it was only the bulging and pulsing of a single vein at her temple that belied the strong emotions she was barely repressing.

Wilson tried to have sympathy for Cuddy and Foreman as the charges were laid out to be seen and heard by everyone in the room but he simply could not find it in him. Cuddy's illness had only exacerbated her actions and decision-making failures but did not lessen the culpability she held for most of the charges against her because most of them had started to take place long before the earliest symptoms of her tumor began to emerge. As for Foreman—well, Wilson sympathized with the neurologist when it came to the sudden death of his brother but he'd always carried an enormous chip on his shoulder and a desire to supplant House the instant an opportunity presented itself; for those reasons alone he had no use for the man.

When it came to be time for Cuddy to speak for herself she did so quietly and tiredly but through clenched teeth.

"I take full responsibility for the decisions I've made as Dean of Medicine of PPTH. I've made mistakes, allowed my emotions to have too much influence over my work as of late and have lost my temper on more than one occasion causing a disruption in the normal functioning of this hospital. That being said, I would like to point out certain mitigating factors. In the past year I've had to deal with the supervision of Dr. House following his release from Mayfield Psychiatric hospital which I assure you has been no picnic. I've been struggling with labor disputes of one kind or another without receiving the support of the board on several crucial items that would have helped settle the disputes sooner and with less stress placed upon me. Nevertheless I did successfully negotiate terms which saved this hospital nearly a million dollars.

"I successfully negotiated and received my demands during the health insurance dispute and ably managed this hospital during the Trenton emergency. All of this while I underwent stresses in my personal life which I did my damndest to ensure didn't interfere with my job. We wouldn't be in the untenable position were are now in if not for the irresponsible and unprofessional behavior of Dr. House which has ultimately led to the labor crisis we currently find ourselves in. We all were in agreement that Dr. House should be fired—"

"Not all of us," Wilson objected, glaring pointedly at her. "I warned this board of the legal implications this hospital faced if it decided to fire House for having a disease and temporarily being unable to work but as I remember no one listened, particularly you, Dr. Cuddy."

"Yeah, yeah," she responded with contempt. "We all know that you are House's lap dog, Dr. Wilson! In fact you're more than that, aren't you."

"Be careful, Cuddy," Wilson told her with a voice that was to calm and too quiet for comfort. He stared daggers at her crooked smirk. It wasn't that he was ashamed of his relationship with his House; he simply didn't see the necessity of parading his personal life in front of the board when it had nothing at all to do with the issues they were discussing.

"Oh, it's okay," Cuddy said in sickeningly sweet mockery. "It's the twenty-first century. Your type has rights too."

Wilson felt his skin begin to tingle and his heart beat faster as his adrenal glands began to pump adrenalin into his bloodstream. "Cuddy, if I were you—"

"You see," she went on, looking away from the oncologist, "Dr. Wilson here is leaving us here at PPTH because he's going to be moving to Philadelphia—"

"Lisa, I think you should stop," Lucas said quietly, frowning. Even the moron knew she was going too far, Wilson mused. He decided he was going to steal her fun away from her.

"What Dr. Cuddy is trying to tell you," Wilson said quickly, rising to his feet as he addressed the board, "I recently resigned my position here at Princeton-Plainsboro and will be pursuing work elsewhere. I currently have received an offer from Camden General to take over as their Head of Oncology and will most likely be moving to Philadelphia to—"

Now it was Cuddy's turn to cut him off, "—to be with his lover, Dr. Gregory House!"

Wilson closed his eyes for a moment and sighed heavily. He could feel the eyes of every person in the room directing themselves in his direction with surprise and shock. He had the sudden urge to bolt from the room and hide but quickly suppressed it, telling himself to stop caring so much about what the other's were thinking and whispering about him. It was next to impossible to do that. He clenched his fists, swallowed hard and opened his eyes.

Cuddy grinned vengefully from ear to ear, meeting Wilson's glare.

"Is that true, Dr. Wilson?" Granger asked, just as taken aback as the rest. Wilson glanced around at the faces in the room. Most looked stunned and curious like Granger but Mrs. Orland looked embarrassed and Chase, who had originally reacted with surprise quickly recovered. He leaned back against the glass wall behind him, crossed his arms and smirked almost approvingly, like he had suspected for a long time that there was more between Wilson and House than simple friendship.

"Well," Wilson said, his mouth feeling like it was stuffed with cotton. His left hand flew instinctively to the back of his neck as he unconsciously began to knead away at the muscle spasms starting to occur due to tension. "Uh, actually I don't see how any aspect of my personal life is pertinent to the conversation at hand and I am not about to discuss it here. Dr. Cuddy has once again shown a lack in judgment and uncontrolled impulsivity. That is due, in part to the fact that she has been diagnosed with a debilitating illness which I encourage her now to explain to the board."

"I have brain cancer!" Cuddy blurted and then laughed as if it was the funniest thing she'd ever heard of in her life. "But he's still in love with House. Nice attempt at distraction, Wilson."

"I'm not at liberty to tell you the details of her illness," Wilson told the board stiffly, "but it's my opinion as one of the doctor's involved in her diagnosis that she is incapable at this time of making sound and rational decisions concerning her own well-being and in the interest of this hospital."

"As another one of the doctor's involved I second that opinion," Chase confirmed with a nod.

Granger began to pinch the bridge of his nose as if he felt a headache coming on. Wilson knew that he felt one coming on himself.

"Mr. Chairman," Dr. Rutherford said in outrage, "this meeting is out of order and chaos is reigning! A motion needs to be made concerning this issue. So I move that this meeting be adjourned and this order of business be tabled for our next scheduled meeting. This will give everyone concerned in the matter more time to get their facts straight in order to present them in a logical, organized fashion."

"Seconded," Wilson offered quickly, sitting down in his chair; he was exhausted.

Granger nodded, appearing shell-shocked. "The motion has been made and seconded. Any discussion?"

"Yeah," Cuddy said angrily. "I think we should discuss Dr. Wilson's relationship with Dr. House and whether or not he is privy to the lawsuit House has filed against this hospital."

Granger gave her a withering look. "Dr. Cuddy," he said to her, "You are out of order. Any discussion concerning Dr. Rutherford's motion for adjournment and rescheduling the previous order of business for the next regularly scheduled meeting? If not, then we'll put it to a vote. All in favor?"

Every hand at the table rose except Cuddy's.

"All opposed?"

Cuddy's hand shot up into the air but it didn't matter.

Sighing, Granger announced, "The motion is carried. Meeting adjourned."

People began to rise from their seats and Wilson was trying to get out of the room as quickly as he could before he was assailed with questions concerning his relationship with House. Damn that Cuddy! He didn't care if she _was_ sick, she knew damned well what she was doing; the woman was manipulative and vindictive to the end! Before he could escape, however, he was stopped by Dr. Granger himself.

The others vacated the room quickly, leaving behind only Cuddy, Lucas, Wilson and Granger.

"Dr. Wilson," the board chairman said, "and Dr. Cuddy, I don't kn ow what's going on between you two right now but your personal life andbattles do not belong in the boardroom. Is that clear?"

Wilson nodded, watching Cuddy carefully. "Perfectly clear. I couldn't agree with you more."

Cuddy said nothing but nodded her head in acknowledgement.

"Good," Granger said in satisfaction as he leaned against the conference table between Cuddy and Wilson. "Now, before any us leaves this room today, one or both of you are going to tell me, in detail, all about this brain tumor Dr. Cuddy has. Since Dr. Wilson has already said more than he should have and will not be asked to further violate HIIPA I'm asking you to either tell me yourself or give Dr. Wilson permission to tell me. What's it going to be?"

Wilson waited for the Dean of Medicine to say something. When she crossed her arms over her chest in defiance, the oncologist rolled his eyes and sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon.

**(~*~)**

Foreman laid his head on the nest his arms formed on his desk. He was exhausted and wanted to go home, to curl up in bed in the pitch dark and pretend that this day had never happened. Unfortunately it had. Equally as unfortunately he had paperwork to fill out for the hospital and the police first. Those tasks were nothing compared to the one he dreaded the most—calling his father to tell him that Marcus was…. He couldn't even bring himself to think the word, much less speak it. He had no idea how he was going to tell him. Their father had always loved both of his sons very much but Eric suspected that Marcus—well, that his dad had loved Marcus a little bit more. The younger son was now afraid that telling his father would end up killing the old man. If that happened, he would be the only member of his family left alive.

It had been revenge. The police had taken his statement of what had happened as well as the notes that had been left by his brother's killers, but Foreman doubted they would get much evidence off of them. The bloody prints on the one note were made by a gloved hand; there were no prints to be lifted from it and chances were the other letters had been handled the same way. The blood was almost certainly Marcus's. His older brother had only given him the vaguest of descriptions of the men who had beaten him before he died. There really was next to nothing to go on there. But Foreman knew in his gut that the white man Marcus said watched as the two Asian men beat on him was the father of the woman who'd died from the fungal infection.

An eye for an eye. As far as the other man was concerned, Foreman had murdered his daughter and left his grandsons orphaned so justice gave him the right to kill a member of Foreman's family in return. How the father had even known that Foreman had a brother living in the Princeton area was beyond the neurologist. It could only mean that the lunatic had had Foreman tailed and found out about Marcus that way. It had likely been Saturday night when he and Marcus had gone out for dinner together.

He lifted his head from the desk and quickly brushed a tear off of his face. He had been responsible for that young woman's death. Not Chase or Taub, but him. He'd refused to listen to his team members when they'd pled with him to wait on the irradiation and bone marrow transplant until the cultures had come back from the lab. Had he listened? Of course not! He'd insisted that he was right—was always right—even when he was egregiously wrong. The one who'd had to pay for his pride was Marcus. Foreman knew he would never be able to forgive himself for either death.

He reached for the single envelope he'd found sitting on his desk when he had returned to his office. Inside had been a formal letter of resignation from Chase. Inside of that had been a personal letter of condolence from a friend he'd mistreated badly enough to drive away both professionally and personally; he'd pushed Remy Hadley away under similar circumstances.

"I've royal fucked up, Marcus," Foreman murmured to the air. "I'm sorry." Officially he was an atheist, but he'd been raised by his Bible-believing Baptist Mama and he hoped that she had been right about there being a heaven and that both she and Marcus were there at that very moment.

With a sigh, the neurologist picked up the phone. He took a deep breath and then began to dial. When the phone was picked up at the other end Foreman forced himself to speak.

"Hi, Dad," he said softly into the phone. "I've got some bad news to tell you."

**(TBC)**


	30. Chapter 30 Part 2 Ch 18

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** No Beta for this so please forgive the mistakes that I missed as I read it through.

**Word Count: **6466

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me". I have parted from Canon into AU at the scene at the end with House in his bathroom just before Cuddy appears. So Cuddy never comes to House's apartment that evening.

**Rating:** **M **(for future smut)

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Eighteen: Wednesday, June 9, 2010; 9:30 A.M.**

Waiting for his wheelchair to arrive (God, he hated wheelchairs!) House was fully clothed and sitting on the edge of his hospital bed when Dr. Justin Clee arrived. The man was perfectly groomed as usual and looked…well, House had to admit that he was one incredibly handsome and sexy man. Since Wilson had stormed away from him before his surgery House had made the decision that it was time for him to move on. He would always love Wilson and regret what could have been but wasn't, but he needed to build a life for himself and that life included a love life. The diagnostician was tired of prostitutes and being alone. He was two days shy of turning fifty-one and he'd had enough of meaningless relationships.

"Good morning, House," Clee said with a grin. "Ready to get out of here I see."

"I want to work here," House told him, smirking, and "not _live_ here."

"I'd be concerned if you did," the surgeon told him. "Well, I came by to sign your release forms and thought I check to see how you were doing. How's your pain level?"

House was hesitant to answer. The pain had been pretty bad, about a six or a seven even with the analgesics he'd been given. Ibuprofen would never be enough to bring the pain in his leg to a level where he wasn't constantly focused on trying to ignore it. It was more than exhausting living that way but he saw no way around it—not if he wanted to remain sober. Opiates would help more with the pain, but he feared a return of the hallucinations and psychotic breaks if he took them.

"Right now it's about a six," he told the vascular surgeon honestly.

Frowning, Clee shook his head and then said, "Well, I've transferred your case to my associate Dr. Larry Timms. I trained him myself so I can vouch for him. However, my last official act as your doctor was to speak to a friend of mine who works through the Penn State hospital system as a pain management specialist. I told her about you, as I mentioned that I would when I spoke with you on Monday, and she feels that there is a very good chance she can help you find a management program that will eliminate most if not all of your pain while still being cognizant of your past opiate dependency. I'd like for you to meet with her, House. There's no reason you should have to suffer the way you do taking NSAIDs alone."

"The last time I took opiates I began hallucinating my best friend's dead girlfriend," House told him frankly, shaking his head. "I don't want her to return for a repeat performance. Besides, one of my conditions for discharge from Mayfield is to stay away from opiates or other mind-altering drugs. I don't want to see that place ever again."

"I understand your reservations, House, I really do," Clee told him, "and I can't speak to the issue of the hallucinations but my friend, Doctor Ruth VanLuten , explained to me once the difference between dependency, addiction and pseudo-addiction. When I told her some of the details of your past pain management she told me it sounded like you were dependent on the Vicodin but not truly addicted. Rather, she suspects you showed symptoms of pseudo-addiction, another animal entirely. I wish I could tell you more about it right now but I have to go right away." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a business card, handing it to House, who accepted it and looked it over. It was Dr. VanLuten's card with an extra phone number added to the bottom in blue ink.

"That's her card. The number at the bottom is her private cell number that she gave me permission to give to you," Clee explained. "_Call her_. The worst that can happen is that you meet with one of the sweetest gals I know and find out the difference between addiction and pseudo-addiction."

House hesitated a moment and then nodded. "Okay, I'll call her. I doubt she can help me but I'm willing to listen to her at least."

"Excellent," Clee responded, pleased. "That was my last act as your physician so now I'm in the clear to ask you out for dinner and drinks Friday night. Nothing that will do harm to your leg, I promise. Seven-thirty work?"

House allowed a grin to emerge. "It works."

"Excellent," the vascular surgeon responded, smiling as well. "I know where you're going to be living so why don't I pick you up? You shouldn't be driving with that leg right now."

"Fine," House agreed, finding the way that Clee was looking at him incredibly arousing. "Sounds good."

"Good," Clee told him, wagging his eyebrows slightly as he brazenly allowed his eyes to roam the diagnostician's body. "I'll see you then."

He swept past Robert Chase on his way out. The intensivist pushed the wheelchair up to the bed and put on the brakes. "Did he give you a clean bill of health?"

House quickly hid the smile he'd been wearing and nodded curtly. "Yup. I'm ready to go. Help me into that thing and then get me the hell away from here before they change their minds!"

They had just about made it out of St. Luke's when House heard his name being called. Chase stopped the wheelchair and turned both he and House around to face the source of the call. He saw Linda Bonnar stride up to him holding a simple white envelope in her hand. She smiled at the diagnostician and then glanced curiously at Chase.

"Heading home now?" the Ob/Gyn asked him.

"If you mean, am I heading to my new place of residence," House replied, "No. First I'm headed back to Princeton for a couple of days to pack some of my stuff and make arrangements concerning the move. Then I'm heading 'home'."

"Don't you think it's a little stupid to be packing up your stuff there and running a bunch of errands right after being discharged from the hospital?" Bonnar asked him bluntly, still wearing a good-natured expression.

House rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to be doing the work, my slave is." He indicated Chase with a nod of his head.

"Did he just refer to me as his slave?" the Australian asked her, frowning. His expression changed, however, when he extended his hand to her, introducing himself since House had no intention of doing so. "Hi, I'm Dr. Robert Chase. I used to work for House at Princeton-Plainsboro."

Bonnar smiled and shook his hand. "Linda Bonnar, Ob/Gyn., nice to meet you, Doctor. I'm playing babysitter for both House and another doctor for the next few weeks while they convalesce."

"Who said?" House demanded, frowning. "Was this Hutton's idea?"

"Are you kidding?" the woman replied. "Liv's no happier about this than you are, but if I don't keep an eye on the two of you, who will? Besides, I'm getting paid pretty to do it, since it means I won't be here at the hospital full-time while I'm doing it."

"I'm not paying you a dime," House grumbled.

"You don't have to. Roth is."

"What?" House looked at her in surprise, his blue eyes flashing. "Why the hell would he do that?"

"Because you are a department head at this hospital," she explained. "Roth knows that it's cheaper for the hospital to cover convalescent care for the both you than risk having you take longer than necessary in your recovery because you haven't been able to rest and heal as you should due to doing too much for yourself. It's a matter of productivity. Besides, the guy is a big softy underneath all that height and muscle—and if you tell him I said that you'd better be prepared to be watching your back for the rest of your significantly shortened life—understand? My MS has been acting up a bit so only working half-time at the hospital for a couple or three weeks will be helpful for me."

"Wow," Chase said, sounding impressed. "I couldn't see Cuddy doing that for any of her staff."

"There's a lot of things Cuddy wouldn't do to make the life of her employees just that much better," House muttered in agreement.

"I take it this 'Cuddy' person is Princeton-Plainsboro's Chief Administrator?" Bonnar guessed, looking from Chase to House.

"She's the Dean of Medicine there, yes," House told her in confirmation.

"But probably not for much longer," Chase added, shaking his head. "Not if some of the money bags on the board have anything to say about it."

"Long story," House told the Ob/Gyn before she could ask. He changed the subject. "Chase here is the one I've hired to be my second in command in the diagnostics department here at St. Luke's."

"Impressive," she said to the younger doctor, nodding approvingly.

"Not really," Chase quipped, sardonically. "It's just because I know whose butt to kiss and just how to do it. Right House?"

"He's not just pretty," House told her, a smirk playing on his lips. "He actually has skills."

Bonnar grinned with amusement and shook her head, holding out the envelope to House. "Well, congratulations and good luck anyway," she said. "These are the keys to your house when you actually decide to move in. Liv asked me to give them to you."

House took them with a nod. "How is Hutton?"

"She's coming along well, all things considered," Bonnar told him. "When you return from Princeton be sure to drop in to see her."

"I will," House told her. The Ob/Gyn nodded.

"Good," she told him. "See you when you get back. It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Chase."

"Likewise," he returned. Bonnar strode away and Chase began to push the wheelchair toward the exit. He'd parked his car in the loading zone just outside the main doors. Parking the wheelchair up beside the passenger-side door he put the wheel locks on, folded back the foot rests while gently lowering House's right foot to the floor, and then opened the car door. He was about to give House a hand up to his feet when the diagnostician gave him one of his death glares. The younger doctor backed up, remaining close in case House began to stumble but otherwise giving him his space and independence, which is exactly what House wanted. It was bad enough he was crippled—that didn't mean he was a complete invalid.

Gripping the armrests of the chair tightly, House scooted forward in his seat; he'd already practiced this with the occupational therapist. That and his experience moving himself in and out of a wheelchair following his infarction gave him confidence that he could handle himself on his own. Making certain his left foot was planted solidly on the concrete sidewalk House began to lift him from the wheelchair using his impressive upper body strength. He made certain that his left leg took the entire load as he shifted the lifting effort from his arms to the lower appendage. Chase was quick to hand House his cane, which the older man then used for balance.

House took the three steps from the chair to the car using his bad leg like the nurses and physiotherapist kept encouraging him to. It was too painful for him to put a lot of weight on it but he had to use it some to keep the blood circulating in it to prevent another DVT from forming. He hissed a little as he took the first step on it. The pain was as bad as it had been before the operation but he knew that as it healed the pain from the surgery would lessen gradually to nothing. There still would be the old infarction pain to make him miserable, however.

He told himself that as soon as he was back from Princeton he would call the pain management specialist Clee had referred him to. He was doubtful that she could offer him any more help from the chronic pain than he'd already received but it was worth a shot. Anything that promised relief from his pain was worth consideration.

Carefully House eased himself into the passenger seat of Chase's Mustang convertible and then gingerly lifted his aching leg inside as well. Once Chase was certain the diagnostician was safely inside he closed the door. The wheelchair was House's from the infarction days which Chase had brought with him. He folded it up and put it into the trunk next to the suitcase he'd already brought down from House's room before climbing behind the wheel.

"All set?" Chase asked House as the latter did up his seat belt.

"Just drive," House told him tiredly, resting his head back against his seat and closing his eyes against the pain. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his bottle of prescription-strength ibuprofen and popped three tablets into his mouth, dry-swallowing them. He put the cap back on the bottle and returned it to his pocket.

For the first ten minutes or so of the drive to Princeton it was quiet in the car, the only sounds those of the engine running, the wheels on the pavement, the odd clicking of the turn signal and House's slightly heavy breathing as he worked at tolerating the pain he was feeling. As usual, the ibuprofen was doing very little towards easing the pains in his leg and groin. The more it hurt, the more House thought about the pain manage specialist. Was it possible there was a method available to him that would work with his addiction, not bring on psychotic episodes or leave him in too much of a fog to be able to focus on his work? Something that he was unaware of in spite of the research he'd done on the subject? He had little hope that there was, but still just the possibility of there being something helped increase his tolerance somewhat.

When the silence became too much for Chase he began to fill House in on what had been happening on the Princeton front; if anyone loved gossip, it was Chase. He liked to gather inside information whenever he could to use for his own advantage, whether it was to up his odds of winning bets and office pools or knowing when the shit was about to hit the fan so he would know when to duck and cover. The intensivist did know, however, how to be discreet when the situation warranted it.

"So Foreman went on this wild goose-chase until he hit the chapel and found Marcus there bleeding to death from a stab wound," Chase said to House, glancing sideways at the older man from time to time as he drove. "I must have shocked him ten times…he was just too badly hurt. I have to admit I'm a little concerned for Foreman. He's not doing so well."

House listened to this without comment. His only reaction was to close his eyes briefly at the thought of Marcus Foreman bleeding to death from an attack obviously instigated by the vengeful family of Fungus Mom, as he had coined her.

"It's a good thing Cuddy has security working at its best," the diagnostician did say after a minute or so. "Watch your back."

Looking at the older man curiously Chase said, "I was the one who tried to prevent Foreman from irradiating the patient. They have no reason to target Taub or me."

"Does the family know that for certain?" House asked him, raising an eyebrow. "Were you able to say much to them before Foreman called security on you? Don't forget—anyone who would hire thugs to beat a man to death and stand there to watch it happen is not someone thinking rationally. You and Taub were part of Foreman's team. That may be all it takes for a sociopath to target you. Carry a big stick." House accentuated what he said by thumping his cane twice on the car floor.

Chase appeared to be thinking very seriously about that, his face becoming serious in expression. House looked out the passenger side window at the world outside the car passing by in a blur. Actually, it was the car zipping through the world in a blur but the result was the same.

"So the board wants to fire Cuddy and Foreman," House murmured thoughtfully, more to himself than to Chase, although the younger man heard him perfectly well.

"It certainly looks that way," Chase told him. "I'm not certain what to think about it. I mean, you have to ask the question: how much of Dr. Cuddy's current behavior is due to the brain tumor and therefore outside of her control and how much of it is simply the woman herself and would remain the same whether or not she was ill?"

House had been wondering that from the moment he'd first heard from the intensivist that there was a mass on her brain that he and Foreman were trying to identify. The diagnostician was less confused by the question than his driving companion, however. Cuddy hadn't been ill when she conspired with Stacy concerning his leg. She hadn't been under the influence of the tumor when she convinced House that his only career prospects were at her hospital because she was having pity on him, hiring him when, supposedly, no one else would have. Nor was it affecting her when she voted to remove Wilson from the hospital board upon Vogler's motion simply because he was House's friend. It hadn't compelled the Dean of Medicine to continue to remind House how unemployable he was while at the same time using his name and reputations to draw in millions of dollars in donations and grants for PPTH, nor had it been a factor in her deciding to underpay him and interfere almost incessantly with the way he diagnosed and treated his patients.

Had it already been a factor when she set up the tripwire for him to trip over, or penalize him unfairly with clinic hours every time she deemed that he had violated some kind of infraction she'd made up in her head? It was unlikely. Had the tumor grown large enough for her to pass him off as Wilson's problem when he'd gone to her for help when the Vicodin was inducing a psychosis that threatened his career, reputation and life in general? Had the mass been large enough to be responsible for her deciding to hook up with a creep like Lucas then flirt with the diagnostician when he came back from Mayfield without letting him know about her relationship with the PI, forcing him to find out by accident and be hurt and embarrassed by the situation? Was the tumor responsible for blinding her from being aware of the tripping in the cafeteria and acting appropriately? Or how about it blinding her from seeing all of the ways he'd been trying all year to change his attitude and behavior?

No. Cuddy was not going to con him into believing that the manipulation and cruelty she'd shown towards him was not her fault but rather the astrocytoma's. He felt badly about the fact that she would likely be dead in a couple of years and that her adopted brat would be left without a mother again but if the board decided to turf her he figured it was only appropriate and she would receive no sympathy from him. He was through with throwing trust and care down that black hole.

"Has she decided to seek treatment?" House asked quietly.

"Yeah—well, not her exactly," Chase answered. "The psychiatrist who did her psych evaluation decided that she wasn't currently capable of making decisions on her own best interest and was willing to testify to that in court. That's when she caved and agreed to the standard treatment regimen."

House nodded, not surprised. He tried to hide his intense interest and anxiety concerning the answer to his nest question, which he offered in the form of a statement. "So Wilson has decided to stay on at PPTH to oversee her treatment, I take it."

Chase looked at him, frowning slightly. To House it appeared like he had something he wanted to tell the older man but wasn't certain whether he should or not. This only intensified his curiosity.

"You mean, Wilson hasn't told you?" asked the Australian hesitantly.

"Told me?" House returned, raising both eyebrows this time. "Hasn't told me what?"

With a sigh, the intensivist shook his head and reluctantly answered, "I…I don't know if it's my place to say anything. I only found out myself simply because I was in the right place at the right time. It's not like he told me himself directly—"

House exhaled in frustration. "I get it, I get it!" he told the driver. "You don't want to break a confidence or say anything out of turn. So now that you've made that clear and I tell you that if Wilson demands to know who told me I temporarily forget your name, you can answer me. _Now_."

"Well, I'm not certain why he hasn't already told you himself," Chase explained. "I mean, it doesn't make sense that he wouldn't have—"

"Just tell me!" House snapped sharply, the Australian managing to get on his last nerve.

"H-he got a job offer," Chase answered carefully, appearing to choose his words carefully, "and he's thinking about accepting it. It will mean he'll be moving away from Princeton."

House felt like someone had just punched him in the stomach. Wilson was leaving Princeton for a job? He was willing to move for a job but not for his best friend? House felt like the rug had been pulled out from underneath him once again. Obviously, this move was going to take the oncologist away from House and he hadn't wanted him to know, or else Wilson surely would have told him. That was it…the end of them, permanently. He was left speechless, and turned his face back to the window away from Chase. He didn't want his former fellow to see him react so strongly to the news and House didn't think he could completely hide his pain.

Pressing his forehead against the window, House fought the urge to cry. He didn't cry. He'd already done enough crying for a lifetime. He was tired of being an emotional fool. This had always been a distinct possibility, and House knew that nothing lasted forever, particularly not in his life. Friends, lovers, jobs, homes—they all changed or left in the end. Nothing was permanent. He'd always know that and was angry that he'd allowed himself to believe that his friendship with Wilson would be different. Tears pooled in his eyes but he refused to let them fall. He pretended to pinch the bridge of his nose and then rub tiredly at one eye to brush them away.

"House," Chase said quietly. "There's something more you should know. Wilson's—"

"I've heard enough," House told the younger man, his voice unusually husky. "I don't want to talk about Wilson anymore."

"But, I really think you need to know—" Chase tried again to no avail.

"Enough!" House snapped. He realized that it wasn't Chase's fault what Wilson was doing. With a sigh, he added, "Thank you for answering my question but you were right in the first place when you were hesitant to answer. If Wilson wanted me to know his business, he would have told me. He hasn't so let's just drop the subject. If he wants me to know, he'll call me."

Chase sighed, not satisfied, but nodded in agreement anyway.

**(~*~)**

After stopping once to allow House to get up and walk around a bit, as he was required to do with his leg, and getting gas for the car, they didn't reach Princeton until eleven-thirty. Both men were famished by that time. House was in a slightly better mood than earlier and when he was in a good mood he liked to eat. The two of them stopped for lunch at one of House's favorite diners (Chase was buying, of course, but House had a good excuse—Wilson had taken custody of House's personal effects when House was transferred to Mayfield and still had it) during which House elaborated a little bit more about the new department being developed and what he was envisioning for it. The older doctor even let a couple of critical comments from the younger slide, taking mental note of the good points he had made. Following lunch Chase dropped House off at his apartment and when to run a few personal errands while the other man rested. He assured House he'd be by the older man's apartment later in the day to help him with some of the packing after he stopped by Wilson's to pick up House's personal items including his wallet.

House entered number 221 B using the hidden spare key—his apartment key was also with Wilson at the loft—and limped around the apartment, checking the place over before heading to his bedroom, still carrying the small suitcase he'd had with him at Mayfield. As he passed the open door to the bathroom he paused and looked in.

He hadn't been conscious to know exactly what kind of mess his blood had made of the small room after Wilson, Foreman and the paramedics had been in there with him, but he had a pretty good idea. That, along with the bits of plaster that would have pulled loose from the wall when he'd yanked the mirror down to access the hidden Vicodin and the shattered glass on the floor and in the bathtub from said mirror, had been cleaned up at some point afterwards. Someone, most likely Wilson, had swept and mopped up the mess, but House could still see blood stains in the grout between the floor tiles where the sealant had worn away and allowed the blood to soak in and stain. There was no sign of the Vicodin bottles that House had stashed away in the two small holes in the wall where the mirror had been.

Turning away he went into his bedroom and set the small suitcase on the floor next to door and went to the bed. He rested his cane against the wall near the headboard and then sat down on the edge and removed his shoes. He pulled back the comforter and laid down his bed, sighing. He wasn't certain if it was true fatigue from the drive or the feelings of loneliness and depression pressed upon him like a cold, wet, scratchy woolen blanket, but all he wanted to do was sleep. Since sleep and he were never close friends, barely acquaintances since the infarction, the diagnostician decided to take advantage of the urge and within a couple of minutes drifted off to a deep sleep.

**Wednesday, June 9, 2010; 5:22 P.M.**

When House awoke the sun had come around to shine through a strip where the black-out curtains didn't quite meet in the center of the west-facing window. The stream of light glowed and sparkled—with dust particles, dancing in the micro-currents of air warmed by the solar radiation—like a defined ribbon slicing through the darkness of his room to land on the comforter and run across his chest before ending abruptly just shy of the edge of the bed. All was quiet except for the sound of water running through a pipe upwards behind the plaster of the wall behind the headboard of his bed to the apartment above, the odd creak or groan of the old building as it shifted and settled slightly on its foundation, the whisper soft sound of a car driving past on the wet street as it was filtered by the thick glass of the window, and his own breathing, slow and repetitive in and out of his nostrils.

He turned his head to check the time on the alarm clock-radio resting on the table beside the bed. What it displayed surprised him and he did a double-take. He hadn't intended on sleeping most of the daylight hours away; his aching leg had been the reason he woke and he wondered how much longer he would have slept if that hadn't been an issue. His bed had felt like heaven compared to the hospital bed at St Luke's and before that the plywood-hard one he'd used at Mayfield. That and the fact that he was recovering from surgery had to be the reasons he'd slept that long. Sure, he was used to taking catnaps during the day, even while at the hospital, when Cuddy wasn't on the hunt for him to do his clinic hours, but that was at the most only an hour at a time.

Lifting the comforter off of himself he slowly rolled to a sitting position on the side of the bed. He rubbed his face with both hands in an effort to wake up completely and then grabbed his cane and stood up slowly, putting most of his weight on his good leg as he did. Once standing he attempted to put a little weight on his right leg. It hurt like a son of a bitch and he cursed softly under his breath. Finding his ibuprofen he took a couple of the tablets and then slowly made his way to the bathroom.

He knew a hot bath would help relax the muscles and ease that portion of the pain but due to his incisions from the surgery not being healed yet he had to refrain from soaking in water which could lead to infection. A hot shower was the best he could do for the time being.

After the shower he dressed and found that he was hungry again. He knew there wasn't much in the way of food in the apartment—there rarely was even when he _was_ living there regularly—but he hoped to find something in the fridge to drink. Obviously Wilson had gotten rid of the carton of milk that had been in there (not in the door) that had already been on its way out before his suicide attempt and the half-bottle of orange juice had a skin on the top speckled with colonies of mold growing on it. Ignoring it, House checked the bottom shelf and found one bottle of beer there. He took it out and looked at it longingly. Sighing, he shut the refrigerator door and moved toward the sink. He held the sweating bottle almost lovingly in his hands, fighting temptation, and then twisted off the cap; with a sigh House poured the amber contents down the drain. Placing the beer bottle into the recycling bin under the sink, he then hunted down all of the liquor he had stored around the apartment, accumulating one and a half bottles of Maker's Mark, a bottle of Grey Goose and a half bottle of Glenfiddich. He poured their contents down the drain as well. He didn't need to have to deal with the temptation of having all that booze around when he wasn't allowed to drink any of it.

He was about to open himself a can of soup, one of the only things he had in the apartment that was consumable when there was a knock on the front door. It was probably Chase. He went to answer the door and sure enough it was the intensivist. In one arm he carried a box. In the other, a take-out bag of what smelled like Chinese. House's stomach growled loudly, earning a smirk from the younger man.

"It's about time." House said, turning and heading to the living room. Chase took that as permission to enter and did so, shutting the door with his foot. "I'm starving."

"I figured you would be," Chase agreed. He set the box down on the coffee table for House to go through while he went to the kitchen with the food.

House opened the cardboard box and pouted, pulling out a six-pack of cold beer that sat on the top of everything else. This total sobriety thing was going to drive him straight back to Mayfield. Under the six pack was a can of grape soda. He looked in surprise in the direction of the kitchen. How had the intensivist known that House was on the wagon, much less that he liked Grape Crush? Then it occurred to House that Wilson likely knew that. House smile sadly at that thought. Even now Wilson was looking out for him. Soon Wilson would be gone, though, and then the only one he would be able to rely upon to look out for him for certain was himself.

Also inside the box were House's wallet, key ring, mail and two envelopes. One envelope had the words 'Loose Change' written on it. The second simply had "Greg". Both were in Wilson's nearly unintelligible scrawl. The diagnostician sighed when he saw the second envelope. He wanted to read it but not while the wombat was around. He didn't want to slip up with his control over his emotions with a witness around to see it. He set the box down on the floor and off to the side for the time being.

"I hope Chinese is okay," the Australian called from the kitchen. "I've seen you eat it before at the hospital." He entered the room with two plates heaped with food, forks and a set of chopsticks for each of them. He set the items down on the table in front of House and then took a seat on the sofa next to him. "Wilson wasn't home when I stopped by there to pick up your things, but he left word with the super that I was coming and to allow me in."

House nodded, picking up the remote control to the TV and turned it on. He checked his TiVo and found the memory full with recordings. Choosing an episode of Mythbusters he sat back with his plate and chopsticks in hand and painfully raised his right leg up onto the coffee table.

"I probably shouldn't tell tales," Chase continued, talking over the TV and earning an annoyed glare from House.

"So don't," House grumbled, pointing at the TV with his sticks. "Show's on."

Chase wisely remained quiet and ate until the next commercial. As House fast-forwarded through it he spoke up. "Wilson's out of control, House."

Frowning, the diagnostician paused the TiVo and looked at his employee. He didn't like the sound of that at all. "What are you talking about?"

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat the younger man said cautiously. "Do you remember me telling you about the rumors going around the hospital about Wilson coming to work late because he was hung over?"

"Yeah," House responded, scowling slightly. "So?"

Sighing, Chase set his plate down onto the table. "When the super let me into the loft today, well, the place looked like a bomb went off in there. There were clothes and garbage on the floor. I thought that was very strange since everybody knows what a neat-freak he is. The box was waiting for me in foyer but I was a little afraid that perhaps someone had burgled the apartment so I went in further to take a look around, make certain that Wilson was inside somewhere unconscious. He wasn't there but it was the same throughout. In the living room the coffee table was covered in dishes with food left on them going bad. There were glasses half-full of alcohol, empty booze bottles in every room including the bedroom. The place smelled like vomit and there was evidence of it around. House, he's an alcoholic on the verge of completely losing control of his life."

House set his plate of food aside, losing his appetite. His mind began to run through the information Chase had just told him, his heart beat speeding up. This had to be a joke or a misunderstanding. There was no way Wilson was an alcoholic, much less out of control. It was impossible. Responsible, rational, intelligent Wilson wouldn't allow himself to get to such a state. Sure, the oncologist had his share of problems and baggage but he'd always had that and hadn't lost control. Alright, yes, when he was upset about something he had a tendency to end up at a bar or House's place and drink himself stupid—but that was an occasional thing and hadn't affected his job or life in general. Besides, House would have known if Wilson was drinking too much. Although, he hadn't been around Wilson everyday for weeks—months, actually—and his best friend had been acting increasingly oddly.

Was it possible?

"You're mistaken," House replied flatly. His statement lacked conviction; he didn't want to believe that the oncologist was in trouble.

There was a moment or two of silence before Chase seemed to come to a decision and then spoke, "House, you know about my background with my father and my Mum…she was an out of control alcoholic. I grew up taking care of her, trying to protect her and help her and failed. She died from her disease. That's what alcoholism is—a disease. I know you know that. I know what to look for and believe me, Wilson is an alcoholic."

House remained silent, his worry threatening to betray him. Chase's logic was difficult to refute, no matter how badly he wished he could. He felt his stomach flip. Wilson may have pushed him away, but that didn't change the fact that the older man was still just as in love with him as he always had been.

Sighing heavily, he turned to the intensivist and ordered, "Take me over there."

**(TBC…)**


	31. Chapter 31 Part 2 Ch 19

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., it's character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **6529

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Nineteen: Wednesday, June 9, 2010; 7:21 P.M.**

Using his key to the loft, which he'd 'forgotten' to return to Wilson after he'd moved out, House unlocked the front door and allowed Chase and him in. It was dimly lit inside, but a lamp in the living room cast a pale light.

"Did you forget to turn off the lamp when you left earlier?" House asked his former fellow.

Chase shook his head. "I didn't turn on any lights earlier. There was enough sunlight coming in through the windows. Wilson must have come home."

With a nod, House called out, "Wilson? It's House. Where are you?" They walked into the living room. House took in the mess—and all of the alcohol—in grim astonishment. House had never seen a mess like this anywhere that Wilson had lived. The man couldn't stand so much as dust on the mantle of the fireplace—at least, he couldn't in the past. Now, it appeared, he simply didn't give a damn. Wilson was nowhere to be seen or heard, which meant he was either in one of the bedrooms or the bathroom—if he was even home.

"Fuck," House murmured to himself, his sharp blue eyes taking it all in. It did indeed smell like vomit in there, along with rotten food and stale alcohol. There was something else as well, just a trace of smoky, musty earthiness. He sighed; marijuana too.

Chase said nothing to that. There was nothing much to say or add. House had aptly described the situation in that single expletive.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" House scowled accusingly. He wanted to blame someone for this but he knew it wasn't the Australian's fault. So that left him and Wilson. Alcoholism was a disease and nobody asked to be plagued by a disease, so in House's mind that left no one to blame but himself. he ignored the voice in his head—which sounded eerily like Hutton's—telling him that nobody asked for cardiovascular disease either but knowingly eating fatty, artery-clogging food, smoking and failing to exercise passed some liability onto the sufferer.

"I only had rumors and suspicions to go on," Chase answered. "I didn't want to alarm you based on no proof. You wouldn't even have listened to me if I had."

House knew he was right. "Wilson! Get your ass out here! I'm too crippled to come looking for you!" When there was no kind of response, he began to limp towards the bedrooms. "Stay here," he told Chase. "I'll yell if I need you."

"Right," was the only reply. House moved slowly across the apartment, biting his lip against the pain. He carefully picked his way through the disorder, not wanting to trip over anything and make things worse for himself. If anyone was going to need an ambulance he didn't want to be the one any more than he wanted Wilson to be. He felt nauseous and it wasn't only from the foul odors. Fear tried to strangle his heart.

"If you're naked you'd better be awake," House said, trying to sound mirthful but failing miserably. He was far too worried to be funny. His old room was the first to be come upon. Pushing open the door he looked in. It looked pretty much the way it had they day House had vacated it and was perhaps the cleanest room he'd seen yet. He was too stressed to appreciate the irony. Once he'd made certain that room was empty he moved on to the second bathroom. It was a filthy mess, where most of the vomiting had been done, apparently. House pulled his shirt up over his face and then shut the door in attempt to keep some of the stench inside. The last places to look were the master bedroom and ensuite. The door to Wilson's bedroom was closed. House knocked on it loudly with his cane.

"Wilson, are you in there?" Once again there wasn't a sign of any kind of response. House turned the knob and found the door unlocked he pushed the door open slowly. It was dark in the room but House thought he could see something Wilson-sized on the bed. "Wilson?"

He threw on the light switch and the light in the ceiling came on. Lying face down on the bed, tangled in bedding that looked and smelled like it hadn't been changed in weeks—probably since Sam had moved out—was his best friend. He wore nothing but a pair of boxers and didn't appear to moving so much as to breathe. There was a bottle of scotch on the floor that looked like it had been dropped there by accident and had spilled out its contents onto the hardwood. House couldn't help the thought that once he was sober Wilson would be pissed at the damage that had been done. He quickly blocked that thought from his mind and limped towards the bed.

House grabbed his shoulder and shook him gently at first and then more vigorously when he didn't respond to the stimulation. The coolness of the oncologist's skin concerned him a little. "Wilson, wake up. Come on, wake up! Wilson, you lush, this is my shtick. You're supposed to be the one waking me up from a drunken stupor!" He grew even more concerned and with a little effort rolled his best friend over.

The front of his boxers were soaked where he'd wet himself. There were lines pressed into his face, arms, and chest from the bunched up sheet that had beneath him. His mouth hung open, his jaw completely slack. House felt his face. It was cold and clammy as were his hands. The worst part was that Wilson's lips and nail beds in his hands and feet were slightly blue, indicating cyanosis. He wasn't getting enough oxygen. House leaned his face down next to Wilson's mouth. He could hear very faint breath sounds but they were coming very slowly. Next he checked Wilson's pulse. It was thready and weak. He checked his air way, afraid that Wilson may have aspirated his own vomit.

"Chase!" House yelled, trying to fight the panic he felt. "Call for an ambulance!"

House heard the sound of the younger man running down the corridor with his cell phone out and dialing when he entered the room. One look at Wilson seemed to tell the intensivist everything he needed to know without having to have House waste precious seconds telling him. House tried again to rouse the oncologist by sternum rub and applying pressure to a thumb nail bed using the head of one of the keys on his key chain. There was no reaction.

Calling 9-1-1, Chase ordered an ambulance, giving the dispatcher a brief description of the problem—an unconscious, possibly comatose adult male in his early forties expressing extreme symptoms of alcohol poisoning including severely depressed respiration and cyanosis. He gave them the address and then called ahead to the Princeton-Plainsboro Emergency Room to warn them that Wilson would be arriving and to keep this discreet. Chase didn't want the entire hospital to know that its out-going chief oncologist was coming in dying from drink.

While this was going on House had climbed onto the bed and held Wilson's head on his lap and monitored his vitals closely. The diagnostician was petting his best friend's head with gentle caresses across his rich brown hair. He was whispering soft reassurances into Wilson's ear. He'd heard his employee's message of discretion to the ER staff and was very appreciative of the forethought. He didn't want to see Wilson's personal and professional reputation sullied and apparently, neither did Chase.

"I'll wait for the paramedics," Chase told him and left the room, but House barely noticed. He was operating on automatic mode, because otherwise his fear would be rendering him useless to the man he held. House had thought losing Wilson to a distant move would have been the worst thing that could happen; now he realized that this…this chance that Wilson could _die_…was far worse.

House didn't care if Chase had heard him tell Wilson that he loved him and to hold on, to just keep holding on. It didn't even register in his stunned mind. He was focused on every achingly slow and shallow breath the oncologist took, the weak, rapid pulse in his carotid. Wilson's breathing had slowed even more since calling the ambulance—down to eight breaths a minute—and House was beginning to worry that the younger man might stop breathing completely before help arrived. Several minutes had passed since Chase had made the call. House was about to tell Chase to call emergency again when he heard the sound of a siren in the distance. Sighing in relief, House re-checked Wilson's pulse. Help was finally coming.

"It's going to be alright," he murmured to the unconscious man. "It's going to be fine."

He wondered if this is how Wilson had felt while waiting for the ambulance to arrive after he'd found House bleeding out on his bathroom floor and shuddered.

The sound from the siren grew gradually louder until it stopped completely. A couple of minutes later he could hear the sound of footsteps as Chase let the paramedic and his team into the loft and led them towards the master bedroom. House heard the rattle of a stretcher rolling down the hallway outside. The door opened the entire way and the stretcher, team and Chase entered the room.

"What happened?" the paramedic demanded as he and an EMT set to work on the unconscious man.

"Alcohol poisoning," House answered quickly. "I'm an M.D and so is he." He nodded at Chase. "I arrived to find him collapsed here, unconscious. He'd vomited but didn't aspirate on it. He's exhibiting a depressed respiratory rate, currently eight breaths per minute, heart rate one-fourteen, hypothermic with indications of cyanosis around the mouth and nail-beds. Time of his last known drink and the quantity consumed is as yet undetermined, but we've been here over fifteen minutes now. What the hell did you do—stop at Dunkin' Donuts on your way?"

"Look, Doctor—what is it?" the lead paramedic said to him brusquely.

"House," the diagnostician snapped angrily.

"Right. Look, Dr. House, there was a five car pile-up on the freeway along the way here and we were almost diverted by the cops on the scene to help out there. We got here as quickly as we could."

House glowered at him angrily but didn't respond. Between the two emergency workers they lifted him onto the stretcher. A mask connected by a tube to a small oxygen tank had been placed over Wilson's face. They covered him with a light blanket and then quickly wheeled him past Chase and out to the ambulance. The two doctors followed closely behind, only pausing long enough to lock up the loft behind them.

"Do you have a preference of hospital?" the lead paramedic asked House as they loaded the stretcher onto the ambulance.

"Princeton-Plainsboro," he answered.

Nodding, the paramedic climbed aboard the ambulance and looked down at him. "Going to ride along?"

House looked at the long step into the back of the ambulance and realized that he simply couldn't make it with his leg. "No," House answered, "We'll follow by car."

The paramedic nodded and Chase slammed the rear doors shut for him. Not waiting to watch the ambulance drive away, the two of them turned and headed for Chase's Mustang.

**Wednesday, June 9, 2010; 9:19 P.M.**

House was sitting next to Wilson's hospital bed in a recliner, staring at his best friend as he slept; the oncologist was connected to monitors and IV fluids and was intubated and connected to a respirator. His breathing was improving but until he was conscious the air tube would remain. The ER staff had stabilized him and then he'd been admitted to ICU for the night; his status would be re-evaluated in the morning. His vitals were looking a great deal better than they had when he'd been rolled through the ER doors, much to House's relief; the diagnostician was glad now that he had slept so well earlier because he wasn't going to get any more sleep tonight.

He heard someone approaching and looked up, thinking it was Wilson's nurse. Instead he was mildly surprised to find that it was Olivia Hutton. Past her, outside the room, he could see Linda Bonnar talking with one of the nurses. The psychiatrist grabbed a chair that rested just inside the door and brought it over to rest next to the diagnostician's. She sat down and smiled softly but he could see concern in her hazel eyes.

"When I called you I wasn't expecting you to come down to Princeton," House told her but he couldn't hide the appreciation and relief in his voice. "You should be in bed sleeping."

"Please!" she said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. "I've spent enough time in bed to last me a lifetime, thanks. I really am feeling much better already."

"You're looking better," he told her honestly. She was still very thin but the color had returned to her skin and her eyes had life in them again. "Not quite as corpse like."

"Well thank you," Hutton replied with a crooked smile. "I've missed your particular brand of flattery." Her expression sobered somewhat. "How is he doing?"

House looked at Wilson thoughtfully. "He's critical but stable, now. Earlier I wasn't certain he was going to make it."

She nodded, "Yes, I could tell by the tone of your voice things were dicey. I'm glad he's doing better for both of your sakes. I notified Darryl after I got off of the phone with you. I figured he should know considering how big of an impact this is bound to have on you."

Shrugging House told her, "I'm fine."

"Are you?" Hutton asked him skeptically. "This is a big deal and I'm finding it difficult to believe that this isn't affecting you."

Knowing that he wasn't going to be able to con her, House decided to be honest. "I was terrified," he murmured, looking away from her and down toward the floor. "He had a GCS of three when we found him in the loft."

"We?" she echoed questioningly.

"Dr. Chase was with me at the time," House explained. "He's my chauffer while I'm down here."

"Oh, yes, right," Hutton replied, nodding now as she remembered. "Linda told me that he was going to be helping you move some of your things on Friday. You know that Gage has wrangled a five ton truck and is coming with his brother to help move whatever larger items you want to bring with you, don't you?"

"I told him that he didn't need to bother," House said, glowering. "I have to hire piano movers, anyway."

"To Gage it isn't a bother," Hutton informed him. "He's the king of paying it forward. So don't feel like you're indebted to him for helping or anything foolish like that."

"I don't like being pitied," the diagnostician insisted bitterly. "I can take care of myself."

The psychiatrist sighed and shook her head. "I know it and Gage knows it. There's no reason to pity you, House. You have proven how you are capable of functioning independently in spite of your disability and if you'll remember," she told him, touching his hand very briefly with her prosthetic hand, "I'm not fond of pity either. Gage considers you a friend and friends help friends. It's as simple as that."

House was a little surprised by that. "He barely knows me and he considers me a friend?"

"Why not?" she asked him in return. "Is there some set amount of time that has to pass before someone can be considered a friend that I haven't heard anything about it before now?"

House snorted. "Well, once he gets to know what I can really be like he'll change his mind."

"Because no one else in the history of Homo sapiens _sapiens_ has ever had character flaws before you, right?" she returned with an amused smirk. "Everybody else has been and _is_ perfect and a delight to be around every moment of their lives. Why, to quote Mary Poppins, I myself am 'practically perfect in every way'."

He glared at her, unamused. She simply didn't understand that he wasn't just a bastard on occasion; he was a bastard all of the time. Those times when he seemed to be human were either great displays of his acting prowess or aberrations in the fabric of the universe. Everybody back in Princeton knew it and before long everyone at St. Luke's would know it too.

"It has nothing to do with a few character flaws," he told her, frowning. "It's who I am. It's the only person I know how to be."

"That's a heaping, stinking, fly-infested load of bullshit," she told him sternly, "and you know it. So stop feeling sorry for yourself and look at the way things really are. Yes, you can be difficult, cantankerous, bitter, angry, scheming and manipulative. You also can be gentle, thoughtful, considerate, compassionate and creative. Both sides are you. You've shown your negative attributes to people more often than you have your positives but there are valid reasons for that. We've already discussed a lot of them. One of the biggest has been the constant pain you've been left to live with that was in no way your fault. Remember this conversation now?."

"Those are just excuses," he grumbled.

"No, they're _explanations_," she told him. "If they are under your control and you refuse to do anything about them then they become excuses but guess what, House? You are doing what you can about them. You're a step ahead of most people in the world who live in denial of their flaws and hurts and needs. I suspect your friend here is a member of the majority. People who try to ease their psychic pain with booze or drugs usually are. I know you can relate to that. I do."

House didn't respond to that, mainly because he had nothing to say that would be an adequate rebuttal. He turned his attention back to Wilson.

Hutton knew he was trying to avoid the subject, apparently, because she didn't let it go. She was nothing if not tenacious.

"Let's take Wilson here," she said quietly. "He considers you a friend—he has for years. If you are as rotten as you think you are then why has he stuck around for so long? Why didn't he turn tail and run the first time you lost your temper with him?"

"Because Wilson is drawn to the needy. The needier the person, the more he is attracted to him," the diagnostician told her bluntly, "and for a long time I was one of the neediest people in his life. He was that way with his wives. He seeks out the neediest women he can find and then marries them to rescue them. Once he succeeds and they no longer need him the same way he loses interest in them and begins to seek out needier women. He'll have an affair and the marriage will be over. The only reason he's stuck with me as long as he has is because he hasn't been able to cure me. I continue to be needy and he feeds off of me as much as I feed off of him. It's been dysfunctionally perfect until this last hospitalization when…" House's voice began to trail off as a thought occurred to him, an epiphany of sorts. "…When I stopped being as dependent on him and decided to move on with my life with or without him. I'm no longer needy enough for him so he's grown bored of me and is moving on to the next desperate person. That's why he's taking a job and moving away from Princeton." House sighed heavily.

"Well," Hutton told him, "on the surface some of what you told me may definitely be true, but I have a feeling it goes much deeper than that, House. There's a deeper pathology at work. I'm not certain what that may be. It would likely take a number of hours of therapy with him before what is really at the core of his behavior could even begin to be understood.

"His friendship with you has not been borne along by your so-called neediness alone. Everybody has a point where they can no longer stand neediness. For example, I love chocolate _alot_. I'm a full-fledged chocoholic, but if I was fed a constant diet of chocolate day after day for years it wouldn't take long before even_ I_ got sick of eating it. Besides, I think you're giving yourself more credit than you deserve—as far as neediness is concerned. You survived before you met him, you survived when he walked away for a few months and again when you were in Mayfield the first time. You've survived hospitalization a second time with the uncertainty of his presence in your life. Believe it or not, you'd continue to survive if he walked out of your life for good…because you're a stronger person than you think you are and you're learning to trust and rely upon your own inner strength and resources while at the same time trusting others for support as well. You've never been as needy as you believe you've been."

House sighed and shrugged. "Time will tell. I have never seen Wilson like this before. Sure, he's always been wound up a little too tight and has had mini-crises but nothing like what I've been told by others and what I saw for myself tonight. Chase firmly believes he fits the criteria of an alcoholic."

Hutton cocked her head slightly at that. "Well, what have his behaviors been?"

"Chase said that he's been late for work on a fairly regular basis lately," House told her. "That usually only happened when I make him late. He's also not shown up for work for any valid reason, which is completely not Wilson. He's been distracted at work, arguing with his staff, looking hung-over, and Chase also has noticed the smell of alcohol on his breath at work. When we discovered him tonight his condo was trashed—filthy, disorganized and reeking of vomit and booze. There were empties and partial bottles of a variety of different liquor and wines everywhere. Wilson is an absolute neat freak and would never allow things to get as bad as they were—well, normally anyway. He was passed out on his bed and near death."

"Was Wilson a heavy drinker previously?" she asked.

"No, not really," he told her. "I used to tease him about being a lightweight and not being able to hold his liquor. Occasionally he would get drunk but it wasn't a daily thing and normally occurred when he was with me. Usually he'd have a beer or two after work or a glass of wine with dinner but there were days when he wouldn't drink at all."

"So he was basically a social drinker," she clarified, earning a nod. "Well, from what you've just told me he certainly does have an alcohol abuse problem and may in fact be an alcoholic but of course that kind of determination can't be definitively made from second and third hand observation. There is reason for serious concern, though."

House nodded grimly. That wasn't what he'd wanted to hear but it was what he'd expected.

"What if this is my fault-?"

"Stop right there," Hutton told him severely. "When you were on Vicodin, was it Wilson's fault that you abused it? I know that he prescribed it for you for years which may have enabled your behavior, but was he responsible for you swallowing those pills?"

House sighed. "No," he answered, averting his gaze.

"Correct," the psychiatrist responded, a little more gently. "You're recent breakdown may have been an added stressor for him, but unless you held him down and forced the booze down his throat this is in no way, shape or form your fault. Leave the responsibility for this where it belongs—on him. You don't need to heap any more unwarranted guilt onto your shoulders—the burden you unnecessarily carry is already too great."

House sighed silently. His frustration over the situation was mounting. He wanted to be there for Wilson, to help him get the help he needed and see him through it like Wilson had been there for him after Mayfield. However, until his best friend realized he needed help there was nothing House could do. His early discharge agreement would preclude him from living with Wilson as long as he was abusing alcohol and spiraling out of control and he knew for himself that he wasn't strong enough to be a rock for the both of them. He was already dealing with so many changes to his life that there were times when he felt like he was going to spin out of control. House knew that he couldn't keep his own head straight if he was busy trying to help Wilson do the same.

He couldn't be there for Wilson as much as he wanted to be and that fact was nearly killing him.

"He's supposed to be the strong one," the diagnostician murmured so softly that Hutton had to strain to hear him. "I'm supposed to be the one messed up and he's supposed to be the one holding my hand and pulling me through it."

Hutton hesitated a moment and then tentatively placed a hand on House's shoulder. He looked at her in response. "Is this alright?" she asked.

Nodding, House looked back down at Wilson again. He wasn't going to tell her how good that simple touch felt right about then. He'd gone for so many years without touch; usually it was his own decision to forego it because it meant letting down a little bit of his guard and making himself vulnerable. As he was learning to risk getting hurt in return for obtaining happiness he was discovering just how much he'd been depriving himself of over the years.

"House," she said softly, "have I ever given you my airplane decompression analogy yet?"

He looked askance at her. "Would you believe me if I said yes?"

Hutton chuckled a little. "Not with that look in your eyes and a response like that."

"Damn it," he grumbled. "I knew I shouldn't have looked at you."

Sighing tiredly Hutton went ahead with her analogy anyway. "You know how the flight crew will go over the safety information at the beginning of every flight and part of their song and dance is the part where they tell you that should the plane experience decompression the oxygen masks will fall from the panel above the seats-?"

"And parents are supposed to put their own masks on before putting the mask on their child." he finished for her. "I recall you telling me that now. You're telling me that I can't help Wilson heal until I heal and become strong enough first. Otherwise I pass out—or relapse—and I'm good to him anyway. I know. Trust me…I can't stop thinking about that. What kind of friend does that make me?"

"A good friend," she told him, giving his shoulder a little squeeze, "who knows his limitations and won't allow them to get in the way of getting his friend with the best help and treatment he can receive from people with the resources to provide it."

"Like Wilson having me committed after my suicide attempts," House acknowledged. He exhaled loudly. At the time he had resented—even hated—his best friend for sending him back to Mayfield and seemingly copping out. Now if it became absolutely necessary to intercede in his best interest and safety he knew it was likely Wilson might hate him in the same way—but hopefully someday he would come to the point where he could understand and forgive. "Life sucks shit."

"Sometimes," Hutton agreed. "I'd like your permission for something."

He looked at her with an upward tug on the corners of his mouth. "Well, okay, but the medical ethics board may not take lightly your decision to seduce me. Oh, what the hell! I won't tell if you won't!"

"Cute," she responded, rolling her eyes. "This is serious, okay? I was wondering if you would object to my speaking with Wilson at some point before he leaves the hospital. You needn't worry about anything you've told me. I would in no way divulge anything in violation of your right for privacy and confidentiality."

"About what?" House inquired. He wasn't concerned about Hutton blabbing on him but he was curious of what it was she wanted to discuss with him. Was it about his drinking? Or was it concerning his indecision about his relationship with the older man? Was it to glean insider information on House from the one person in the world who probably knew him the best?

"A number of things," Hutton told him with a shrug. "I don't have an itemized list of topics I want to bring up. I was hoping that by getting to know him better I might be able to get some insight into his perspective on his relationship with you and some of the things you two have gone through in the time that you've known each other. Now that I've become privy of his abuse of alcohol, talking with him may help me to determine the severity of the situation and whether he is, in fact, addicted to alcohol. What happens with Wilson has a huge impact on you and as your therapist I'd kind of like to get a handle on what's going on with him."

"Do you think this will help him?" the diagnostician asked next, furrowing his eyebrows. "Do you know of a therapist or program that would be a benefit to him?"

"Possibly," the psychiatrist answered. "Of course, to do that I need your permission since I will be asking him questions that pertain to you and I'll have to call Xander and see if he can get me temporary privileges here at PPTH. I don't want to start stepping on toes."

"Go ahead," House told her with a trace of anger. "Hell, stomp on them and break their feet while you're at it. Roth may have to deal with Cuddy's replacement, though."

"Her replacement?"

"Yeah." House turned to her to explain. "She was recently diagnosed with a frontal lobe anaplastic astrocytoma. It's likely reached stage three by now. Wilson told Chase that she probably has been symptomatic for six months or so but only as recently as the past two or three months has shown marked symptoms."

Hutton appeared stunned; her hazel-green eyes had widened somewhat and it took her a moment or two to begin to grasp what he was telling her. "It's been a while since my neurology rotation but frontal lobe masses can cause motor, emotional and executive function deficits, can't they?"

"Yes," House agreed. "This leads to the question of how much of her recent behavior and judgment calls were influenced by the malignancy and thus rendering her not responsible for them."

"You're thinking about her push to have you fired as well as the firing of the nurses that led to that lovely picket line I had to cross to get in here tonight?" It was a rhetorical question that she posed.

"Not only that," he added grimly. "What if her early symptoms led to her decision to begin dating Lucas and then her flirtation with me until she was caught? What if it influenced her rapid swings from caring for me to despising me that I had to watch her go through over the past year? Would she still have chosen Lucas over me had she been perfectly healthy? Would she have torn into me in Trenton? Would I have ever confessed my feelings to Wilson and him to me or would I be dating her right now under the continued belief that Wilson wasn't in love with me? Would I have reached the point where suicide seemed like an option? Could one fucking three centimeter tumor have altered the courses of not only her life but of the lives of all the people she interacted with?"

"Those are pretty deep and compelling questions," Hutton told him soberly, nodding slowly. "The problem with them, however, is the fact that they are 'what if' questions and there is no way that 'what if' questions can be definitively answered. That is, unless, you're not only a master puzzle solver but a crystal ball reader as well. One single decision or choice influenced by the tumor could end up splitting into endless possible outcomes and even if you could track them all it wouldn't make a difference anyway because what is done is done. It's in the past and until we figure out time travel—and I pray we never do!—there's no way to change it. So all 'what if' questions do is distract you from focusing on what is happening and under your control in the here and now. They're a waste of time and resources; they can also drive you insane. So let's focus on what is happening in the present and what choices and actions need to be made and done _now_ to lead us closer to the final outcome we want to see become reality. Okay?"

House gave her a reluctant smirk and nodded. She was absolutely right. Cuddy did choose Lucas and turned on him out of anger, jealousy, angst or what have you. He had attempted suicide and as a result found out that Wilson was in love with him, too. That was historical fact; it was time to move on.

"So," Hutton told him, "you still haven't given me an answer to my question. Do I have your approval to have a conversation with Wilson, understanding of course that if I get approval from this hospital to go ahead, anything we talk about carries the same confidentiality rights for him as do my conversations with you?"

Frowning at that, House hesitated a moment. He didn't like the idea of not knowing what was going on in Wilson's head, how serious his condition was or any decisions he made. However, Wilson did have his rights too. If it could potentially help the man he loved he could hardly say no. He nodded his head curtly once in agreement.

**Thursday, June 10, 2010; 7:04 A.M.**

He awoke with a pounding headache. Wilson slowly emerged from his alcohol induced coma. His vision was blurred and his stomach felt heavy, like he's eaten a bundle of rocks and they were just sitting there collecting lichen and moss. His tongue felt like it was already covered in a thick growth of sphagnum growing on a pile of shit.

At first he couldn't get his mind to function beyond the acknowledgement of sensory stimuli but after a couple of minutes he became aware that he was not lying in his bed at home. He wasn't home at all. _Shit_, he thought, _I haven't ended up in some stranger's bed again, have I?_ A week before he'd gotten wasted at a local bar, blacked out, and had woke up naked in bed with a young man in his twenties who was sound asleep. He hadn't bothered to wake up the young man to find out what the hell had happened; he had a pretty good idea what had happened. Instead he'd got out of bed carefully so as not to wake the other man and found his clothes strewn here and there around the tiny bachelor suite. After dressing as quickly and quietly as he could, Wilson had got the hell out of there hoping he never heard from the fellow again. He'd spent the next day wallowing in guilt and trying to remember what had happened to no avail. There had been used condoms in the wastebasket next to the young man's bed which had been the only source of comfort he'd had.

Had he done it again? Would he roll over to find himself in bed with another person, male or female? The thought made him sick to his stomach, or was that from the hang-over? He closed his eyes tightly and then turned his head; slowly he opened them again. His vision was still slightly blurred but it became clear that he wasn't in bed with someone else but rather was lying in a single bed. He saw the IV in his arm and followed the tube up to a regulator pump and then up a steel pole to a couple of bags dangling at the top. That was the point where he became aware of the soft, steady beeping from somewhere behind and above him. He was in a hospital bed. _Shit._

He looked in the opposite direction, moving his head slowly due to the pain and saw a large figure sitting in a chair next to his bed. He felt something squeeze his right hand. Someone was holding it and he recognized the hand clasping his.

"Good Morning, you idiot," House's quiet, growly voice said. "What the hell is going on with you?"

Wilson sighed and closed his eyes. He had absolutely no idea what to tell him. He still hadn't figured that out for himself.

**(TBC…)**


	32. Chapter 32 Part 2 Ch 20

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author. Unbeta-ed so please forgive any errors.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **6171

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Twenty: Thursday, June 10, 2010; 7:09 A.M.**

Turning off the ventilator alarm first House then turned to Wilson and began to peel off the tape that held the breathing tube stable. He wasn't worried about being particularly gentle as he did. In his opinion the man lying in the hospital bed deserved a little discomfort for the way he'd scared House the night before.

"Okay, you know the drill," House told him. "I'm pulling it out now." Working as quickly and efficiently as he could the diagnostician pulled the breathing tube out of Wilson's throat. As he was doing that Wilson was swallowing hard repetitively. Once it was out the younger man coughed and then groaned. House handed him a couple of tissues from a box on a cart nearby. Wilson cleaned up the saliva and mucus that had been drawn out along with the tube. When he swallowed he grimaced; his throat was raw and irritated and would remain that way for a while.

"Thanks," the younger man said hoarsely. "What happened? Is this Plainsboro?"

"Yeah, it's Plainsboro and Chase and I found you face down in your own vomit in an alcohol coma," House told him, his voice hard. He was both angry at and afraid for his best friend. "You came a hair's breadth away from dying, and I'm not exaggerating. Chez Wilson looks and smells like a cess pit and you better fucking well have a good explanation for what happened. You scared the shit out of me—in front of Chase."

Rolling his eyes Wilson retorted, "Quit being melodramatic. I'm sure it wasn't that bad." His voice was barely more than a whisper.

"You want me to show you the fucking initial evaluation the ER team did when you were first brought in?" House hissed. "Your GCS was a three. You were tachycardic, your respiration was eight breaths a minute, and your BP was barely measurable! If we had been fifteen minutes later finding you we would have had to call the coroner, not an ambulance. Trust me—it was fucking bad!"

"Fine, it was bad," Wilson mumbled resentfully. "What I don't understand is what you're doing in Princeton. Don't tell me you drove from Philly to spy on me."

"Oh, no," House said quickly, shaking his head, "you're not going to change the subject. There was enough booze in the loft to open your own liquor store!" He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly in an effort to calm himself down. "How long has this been going on?"

"Has what been going on?" Wilson asked, avoiding House's piercing gaze.

"You know what," House growled. "Has this become a regular thing, drinking yourself unconscious, or worse?"

When the younger man didn't reply, the older sat on the edge of his bed. His tone went from furious to deeply worried. "How often do you drink to excess? One night a week? Two? Every night? What?"

"Why do you even care?" Wilson shouted, but with his throat the way it was not any louder than normal conversation.

"Why?" House repeated, dumbfounded by the sheer stupidity of the question. "What do you mean—How…?" He shook his head in frustration and yelled, "You're a moron if you have to ask that question!"

"You've got your new job, your new life, new friends…."

"Is that what this is about?" House asked him. "You're worried about me making and having friends aside from you? Isn't that something you've been encouraging me to do for years now? Hell, you paid my team to take me out to get me out of your hair so you could fuck Sam's brains out without having me walk in on you!"

"Yes," Wilson admitted, still avoiding looking at him. "That was when I was still a part of your life. I haven't been lately. They know you better than I do these days."

House sighed, closed his eyes briefly, telling himself to be patient, to try to be understanding and to repress his natural urge to strangle some sense into the younger man.

"I told you I want you to be a part of my life," he replied. "I've tried to convince you to join me in Philly so we can be together. You're the one who's been pulling away. I haven't really changed—"

"Yes, you have!" Wilson said vehemently, whipping his head around to glare at him. "You're stronger, more independent, and more confident."

"What the hell is wrong with that?"

"Nothing," Wilson told him, "but you don't _need_ me anymore. In fact, you're doing better without me."

House stared at him, astonished. _Better without you?_ he thought to himself. _I'm lost without you! _"You couldn't be more wrong, Wilson."

"I don't believe you," the oncologist told him sadly. "You can't be objective. You can't see yourself as other people can. There's hope in your eyes that hasn't been there since the infarction. It was never there when you were around me, not even after I told you that I was in love with you. You're walking straighter, there's an aura of confidence about you. You're still snarky, rude, abrasive and selfish—but somehow you're kinder, too. You're here, holding my hand after everything that's happened in the past couple of weeks; the old House would have avoided me like the plague, resentful and angry and unwilling to forgive. You're talking to me about your feelings, for God's sake! _You!_ You would never do that before. We avoided deep discussions or confronting each other over the really important issues. Everything I yearned to see happen in you is happening and it didn't start happening until we were separated from each other. I can't help but believe that somehow I've been holding you back and if we are together again I'll end up dragging you down again."

Taken aback, House didn't respond immediately. He had to admit that he had wondered the same thing, usually right after an argument with Wilson, but he'd never actually put any credibility to it. His decline since the infarction had been his own doing, and he was the one whose narcotics addiction caused Wilson trouble with Tritter. He was responsible for Amber being on the bus that fateful night; her death had hurt Wilson worse than House had seen up to that point. Wilson was the one who had helped him time and again to rise out of a depressive funk and see that there was a reason to keep getting up in the morning. Wilson had been the one to get him through the infarction and Stacy's desertion. If anything he was the one who dragged Wilson down, not the other way around.

"Without you, everything else is meaningless. We've both done things to hurt the other," House told him, his voice deep and gravelly. "We both have issues to deal with. I'm working on mine with help. You can too. I don't know what kind of idiot psychiatrist you had before but he or she is a quack. I'm certain Hutton or Nolan can refer you to a competent therapist."

Wilson laughed bitterly at the suggestion. "Two years ago you thought psychiatry was as much medicine as phrenology was. You refused to see a therapist after the infarction no matter how hard Stacy and I tried to convince you. You were furious at me for dosing you with an antidepressant. Now you're standing there espousing therapy as the cure for all my troubles? I'm fine, House. I don't need psychotherapy."

"You're fine?" House scoffed in disbelief. "You just about died from drinking yourself unconscious and by reports I've heard from others you've been hung over almost every day at work, been late to work more often than not and the other day Chase smelled alcohol on your breath in the morning at the hospital while you were seeing patients. You are not fucking fine!"

"My drinking has been a little heavy recently," the oncologist admitted with a shrug, "but I'm not out of control. Last night was an aberration. I don't need to see a therapist."

So frustrated was he with his best friend's stubborn denial that House just wanted to hit something. This once again was going poorly. He simply couldn't get through to the younger man and it scared him because once he returned to Philly anything could happen to Wilson; the last thing he wanted was to receive a phone call telling him that he was dead. He didn't even want to think about it.

House took a deep breath and exhaled loudly in an effort to let go of his anger. He needed to be calm and thinking rationally. "Then do one thing for me. Just one: talk with Hutton. Last night…I was…certain you weren't going to make it and I knew if that happened I'd lose my mind. I called her to talk to her, to get my head straight. She drove to Princeton not only to check on me but to see if there was anything she could do to help you. She just wants to find out how you're doing. She's also interested in talking to you about me…she wants all the dirt."

Shaking his head Wilson scowled suspiciously. "I don't want to talk to her or anyone else."

"Wilson—" House began but was cut off by the normally mild-mannered James Wilson.

"I said no!"

House grabbed his cane and rose to his feet. With all of his strength he slammed the walking aid down on the surface of a nearby cart. The sound was so loud and sharp that Wilson recoiled with surprise.

"What do you want from me, Wilson?" House shouted, allowing his anger to build again so that his sorrow didn't show instead. "What do I have to do to get through to you? I had to sign a contract with Nolan to be released early and in that contract it specified that I'm to stay away from all intoxicants, including _alcohol_. If you don't get help there can be no future for us. Do you get that? Or is that what you want? Please talk to her."

He'd used the 'P-word', something House almost never did, but this was that important to him. He was on the verge of losing the man he loved. He didn't know if he _could_ go on without him but he knew he would _try_ if it came to that. He desperately didn't want it to come to that.

Desperate blue eyes stared into stubborn brown ones for an electric moment before Wilson looked away first and gave House a simple nod. House felt his heart start beating again and he exhaled the breath he'd been unconsciously holding.

The diagnostician said earnestly, "She's going to be here for nine-thirty."

"I'll give her five minutes," Wilson warned him. "Don't ask for more. I'll give her a chance to say her piece but that's it."

House wanted to argue that Hutton wasn't the one causing the rift between them but bit his tongue. It certainly wouldn't make things better at that point. He hoped that she would be able to persuade Wilson that he needed help and point him in the right direction.

It was seven-thirty in the morning when the hotel phone rang and Dr. Olivia Hutton received the call from Roth telling her that he'd spoken to a Dr. Malloy who is the temporary acting Dean of Medicine at PPTH she has been granted temporary hospital privileges and had an appointment at nine to sign some forms and meet briefly with Malloy and the Chief of Psychiatry Dr. Lily Xiang. Upon hearing this she called House to let him know what the status was and that she would be a little late arriving at the ICU.

"He's not going anywhere," House told her. "Chase put him on a thirty-six hour psych hold."

"That was wise," she agreed, trying to speak softly so as not to wake up Bonnar. "Is he willing to talk with me?"

"Grudgingly," House informed her. "He's going to give you five minutes to present your case. I'm beyond frustrated with him. He won't admit to having a drinking problem or that there is anything wrong with nearly drowning in his own puke and dying from alcohol poisoning."

"Hmm," Hutton hummed, frowning. If Wilson refused to acknowledge that he needed help, there was very little anything anyone could do for him. She would have to try to convince him that he did, in fact, have a problem. "That's disappointing, but we'll see how those five minutes go. How are you this morning?"

"Fine." he replied noncommittally.

Hutton rolled her eyes and sighed silently. She could understand why House and Wilson had such a volatile relationship; they were both too stubborn for their own good. "Can you define 'fine' for me House? Or was that a subtle way of telling me that you don't want to talk about it?"

"You're very insightful this morning," he told her casually.

"You're not alone, are you?" the psychiatrist asked him, cluing in. "Did somebody just come with earshot?"

"Yes, I think you're right about that."

"Okay, I'll let you go," she told him, "but don't think that you're off the hook. You're still going to spill your guts today."

"That's unfortunate," House responded, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Hutton smiled in amusement.

"Bye, House."

There was the briefest of pauses before he answered, "Bye."

She hung up. Turning around to head for the bathroom she saw that Bonnar was awake and propped up on her elbow looking at her. "I'm sorry," Hutton told her friend, "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," the other woman assured her. "The phone ringing did. That was Roth?"

Nodding, Hutton sat on the edge of her bed facing Bonnar's. "He managed to get me temporary privileges. I have to meet with the acting dean and chief of psychiatry before I talk with Dr. Wilson. That should be fun. From what House told me about Dr. Xiang she's one of those hardnosed department heads who doesn't appreciate strangers scratching around in her litter box."

"Well that was a lovely mental image to start my day with," Bonnar teased, earning a grin. "So that's my cue to get up and get ready to go, I take it?"

"Unless you want to drive me to the hospital in your nightgown," was the reply. Hutton got up and headed to the bathroom to have a shower.

**Thursday, June 10, 2010; 9:32 A.M.**

Gregory House was found sitting in the ICU waiting room with his right leg elevated on two more chairs and snoring softly when Hutton and Bonnar arrived. Both women stood there for a moment, staring at the sleeping man with amused smiles on their faces.

"It's amazing how innocent a person looks when they're sleeping," Hutton murmured, shaking her head. "The poor guy had to have been awake most of the night."

"He's pretty hot, girlfriend," Bonnar told her, wagging an eyebrow. "If I didn't have Gary…"

"You'd be competing with Justin," Hutton told her.

"House is gay?" the OB/GYN asked, looking a little disappointed.

"You know that I can't confirm or deny that," Hutton answered, "but Justin hasn't been hiding the fact that _he's_ interested in the new kid in town."

"What piece of man-flesh isn't Justin interested in?" Bonnar asked rhetorically, sarcasm in every syllable. "If there's a y-chromosome involved that guy is salivating."

Hutton chuckled softly and elbowed her friend. "That's not true, Linda, and you know it! Justin likes to talk but since Charles died five years ago he's dated exactly two men and then only casually. He's finally emerging from his grief and I personally think it's a very good thing. I've been worried about that boy."

"Boy?" Bonnar echoed. "Liv he's only six months younger than you! Speaking about dating…when the hell are you going to find some man-flesh of your own? Vibrating silicone is a poor substitution for the real thing."

"Linda!" the psychiatrist cried softly, shocked and embarrassed. "Shhh! Why don't you just _yell_ it? Besides, I don't do that."

"Right," Bonnar replied cynically. "You also don't fart. You're too ladylike for that. Oh, wait a minute! I happen to remember a certain drive from a leadership conference in Buffalo after which the detailers at my car dealership would even go near the interior of my car without a gas mask thanks to you!"

"You lie!" Hutton responded as if scandalized before they both began to giggle like school girls. "Besides, it's not my fault _you_ insisted we eat at that Mexican restaurant before the drive home."

"Oh believe me," Bonnar told her, barely repressing her laughter, "I won't make that mistake again!"

House fought back a smile and kept his breathing slow and even, not letting on that he had woke with Hutton's first comment. It was amusing to listen to his shrink talk when she wasn't in therapist mode and conducting herself 'professionally'. He decided he would have to remember the Buffalo trip for the future humiliation of the psychiatrist—_Good-natured, of course_, he thought, tongue-in-cheek.

"Oh, shut up!" Hutton told her friend, grinning and rolling her eyes. "Look, just let him sleep. He probably really needs it. I'm going to slip in to see Dr. Wilson. Hopefully I'll end up being in there for more than five minutes but we'll see."

"I hope this waiting room has decent magazines to read," he heard Bonnar answer and a moment later she sat down in the chair next to his.

"Give it up, House," she told him bluntly. "I know you've been awake for a while." She whacked his shoulder lightly with a magazine. "You may be able to fool her but not me."

House allowed himself a smirk as he stopped his fake snoring and opened a crystalline eye to look at her. "How did you know?"

"I'm a freaking psychic," she responded wryly. "That and I saw the corner of your mouth twitch upward when I brought up the vibrating silicone bit. Nice try, though."

Sighing, the diagnostician opened both eyes and sat up, lowering his left leg off of the chair but keeping his aching right one elevated. "I 'm losing my touch," he mumbled almost morosely. On top of getting soft he was also losing his ability to con. He really didn't know if he liked these side-effects of recovery.

"Naw," the OB/GYN assured him with a smirk. "I just happen to have a son in college who used to do the exact same thing. He still doesn't know that I caught on to what he was doing. I used to feed him falseSo, were you a difficult child, too?"

"Difficult is my middle name," he retorted proudly.

"Along with Egotistical Bastard," Bonnar acknowledged knowingly.

House was gaining a new respect for her. She was one sharp individual and knew how to spar.

"How'd you know?" he asked, feigning surprise. Bonnar chuckled shaking her head.

"So if you were listening in you can answer my question," Bonnar told him, smirking. "Which way do you swing?"

"Forward," House told her. "Oh, oh you weren't talking about baseball, were you? Why? You want to go find an empty room and play a little doctor?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Would Gary be welcome?" she asked him slyly.

"Does he like threesomes?" House toyed. Bonnar scowled at him when she realized he was playing games. House usually didn't appreciate people poking their noses into his private business; usually if he wanted people to know something he's either make a very public announcement or tell it as if it was a joke and see how many people actually took him seriously. Bonnar, however, reminded him a lot of himself and if that was true she would persist in her quest for knowledge until he grew tired of it and killed her.

He sighed. "Let's just say that Gary wouldn't be a problem if he wanted to join us."

"Ah, I see," she replied, appearing to be almost disappointed that he gave in so quickly. "You like to double your luck."

"I haven't had many serious relationships in my life," the diagnostician commented. "I tend to prefer women, but if it's the right man I don't mind that either. Why the curiosity? I don't give a damn whether you're straight, bi or lesbian."

"Just curious," she replied and shrugged, "just seeing if Justin has a chance."

Thinking about that for a moment, House wasn't certain. He still had the date with the surgeon but not knowing where things were going with Wilson was confusing the issue.

"We have a date set." Now, why did he admit that to her?

Laughing triumphantly she exclaimed, "I knew it! Actually, Liv was right. I spar with him about his love life but he spent a long time mourning his last partner. He's really a sweet guy but don't you dare tell him I said that!" She sobered a bit. "So does that mean your friend here is just a friend?"

"I think Hutton needs to teach you about boundaries," House told her, frowning. He wasn't really annoyed but wasn't comfortable about talking about such private issues, either.

"Oh, _I've_ got great boundaries," she told him with a wink. "I'm not so good at respecting _others' _boundaries though. I'll quit being such a snoop—for now, anyway."

House turned his head to look in the direction of Wilson's room. His stomach was knotted up with worry. If he had believed in God he would have been praying at that moment that Wilson would give Hutton a chance and listen to her. He knew Wilson, though. If the oncologist felt like he was being judged or accused of something he would shut down and no one—not even House—would be able to get through.

"Don't worry," Bonnar told him, "this is Liv's specialty. If anyone can get through to him she can."

House looked back at her curiously, "She told you about Wilson?"

The blonde nodded, smiling softly. "Yeah, just the basics. He's your best friend and he's been drinking like a fish, acting strangely and you're worried about him."

"He fucked up, alright," House told her quietly, nervously thumping his cane against the floor with his left hand while grabbing at his thigh and rubbing at it with his right. It was bothering him quite a bit and the ibuprofen he'd been popping simply wasn't doing the job.

"Sounds like the rest of us, doesn't it?" Bonnar commented pointedly. "Look, if he does have a problem but refuses to get help you're going to have to let him go. You can't change him or save him. He'll only be able to kick his addiction when he's ready to get better."

Smirking bitterly, House nodded. "You're talking to a Vicodin addict. I wasn't ready to quit until I was taking enough of the stuff to develop narcotic psychosis and ended up in Mayfield to detox and get therapy."

"Was that just recently, here?" she asked.

He shook his head. "That was a year ago. I was in this last time for trying to off myself." He was wearing long sleeves and had no intention of showing her his freshly made scars but he knew they were there. They were a permanent reminder of the lowest point in his life. He'd thought that his psychosis and first hospitalization had been that but he hadn't even understood how low he could go until this last hospitalization. He found it hard to believe where he was now compared to where he'd been just a few weeks before.

"Shit," Bonnar muttered and then grinned. "Congratulations on being such a complete failure!"

"Go to hell," he retorted. In a sense he was a huge failure and had finally reached a point where he was glad that in that instance he was. A spasm in what remained of his quadriceps caused him to hiss and grab at his thigh again.

"Pretty bad, huh?" Bonnar asked but it was more of a rhetorical question than anything. "Mind if I take a look? It might be related to your surgery."

"I'm fine," he told her gruffly.

"You're a filthy liar," Bonnar told him straight up. "Now I'm going to scope out an empty room around here—for non-licentious purposes—and check your leg."

"There's a treatment room nearby," Chase said from behind House. He'd arrived for his shift and decided to check on both Wilson and House before heading to diagnostics. "I'll get a wheelchair."

"The hell you will!" House objected rather loudly. "I told you, I'm fine."

"You're also an obstinate jackass," Bonnar told him mildly, smiling in amusement. "Go get the chair, Dr. Chase."

"Get the chair and you're fired, Chase!" House warned him.

"No, he's _not_," Bonnar told House, suddenly stern. She used the tenor of her voice rather than volume to make herself clear. She met his glare defiantly, undaunted. "Go ahead, Chase. If he fires you I'll break his balls."

Chase's eyes widened and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth; he headed to the nursing supply.

House sighed silently. She'd called his bluff and looked completely unflappable. _Damn _he liked her. That's why he frowned and said, "Break my balls? Sounds intriguing. You sure your husband would be okay with that?"

Bonnar threw her head back and laughed. "Gary? He'd pay to watch."

House suddenly saw the humor and couldn't help but snicker. "Sounds kinky. Does he wear the panties and you wear the boxers, perchance?"

"Depends whether we're role-playing or not," was the quick retort. "Look, House, I worked my way through medical school as a prison nurse. If you think you can intimidate or manipulate me, think again."

Chase returned with the wheelchair.

"That was quick," the OB/GYN told the younger doctor, impressed, and then looked at House and gave him an approving nod. "You've broken him in well."

"Thanks a lot," Chase spoke up a little indignantly.

House insisted in getting into the chair himself and managed, but with Bonnar and Chase at his side ready to catch or assist him as needed. House absolutely hated to be seen in a wheelchair, especially around PPTH where he was already seen as a freak and a failure. Bonnar must have sensed that because she handed him the magazine she'd been about to read. He held it up high in front of his face, as if completely engrossed in the ad for a drug for—_what?_ _Fuck_, he thought. _For erectile dysfunction. Perfect._

Chase pushed the wheelchair to the empty room and they entered quickly before anyone noticed. The intensivist hung the sign EXAM IN PROGRESS. DO NOT DISTURB on the door before shutting and locking it. There was a table against a wall and Chase assisted House onto it.

"Okay," Bonnar said to him, a devious look in her eyes, "everything off below the waist and feet in the stirrups while I warm the speculum. Oops, sorry. Force of habit."

"You're not funny," House told her and then gave a death look when he noticed the Australian smiling. Chase's expression quickly dulled and became impassive.

"Seriously, though, everything off waist down and lie on your stomach. I need to check the incision behind you knee and then I'll have you roll over so I can check your groin."

"What about my modesty?" House asked her, batting his eyelashes at her.

"Like you weren't a streaker in college," Bonnar scoffed. She checked in the cabinet in the base of the exam table and found a cotton modesty sheet, handing it to the diagnostician.

House removed his jeans and underwear then gingerly rolled over onto his stomach.

"You and me both," House muttered, but set the sheet aside anyway. He did feel a little self-conscious but other than for the scar on his thigh he'd never been overly bashful about his body. Bonnar was washing her hands at a sink and then quickly found a pair of gloves, snapping them on.

"How often have you been changing your dressings?" she asked him casually as she ever so carefully rolled down the pressure bandages covering the soft cotton ones over his incision sites.

"Last time was early last evening," House answered, grunting a little in discomfort. She was actually quite gentle but any kind of pressure change or touch was sending off painful shocks through his leg. "I've been a little preoccupied since."

"Dr. Chase, would you mind playing nurse for a moment and find me some a stethoscope, saline, bandage pads and tape?" she asked him almost sweetly. House rolled his eyes at her change in demeanor. The younger doctor fell for her charm and readily found the items for her.

House looked at his bare thigh, his hideous scar completely exposed. To say he was feeling self-conscious would have been an understatement. He was humiliated to have Bonnar and Chase see the result of his infarction but he knew it would be easier and over with quicker if he simply cooperated. He turned his face to the wall and closed his eyes.

"It's quite swollen," he heard Bonnar say as she felt his legs for any discernable lumps where there shouldn't be any; Chase hummed in agreement. House heard one of the two exhale loudly and then place the drum of the stethoscope against his leg in strategic points. "Strong pulse sounds though and the color is good so I don't think we're looking at a new clot."

"There's some edema in the ankle and foot," Chase indicated. "Slight edema in the left foot as well."

"How has your water input urine output been, House?" Bonnar asked him as she began to carefully clean the incision on his leg with the saline. Her touch was light but thorough.

"Well," House answered sardonically, "The water goes into my mouth and the urine comes out of the ureter through my penis and I'm very careful to make certain I don't confuse the two…"

"Look, smart ass, I'm serious," Bonnar retorted. What House didn't see was the grin on her face. "I'm wondering about kidney function."

"Everything is normal," he told her. "So tell me, are you still enjoying my hot man-flesh?

"Eavesdropping ass," Bonnar called him, rolling her eyes in disgust.

"That, too," House said with a grin. Repartee was helping him overcome the shame he felt over his scar.

"I've seen better," she responded, finishing off the dressing.

"Can we just hurry along with this?" Chase said, blushing slightly and making certain that his eyes went anywhere _but_ his boss's buttocks.

"Okay," Bonnar told House, "over onto your back; you can cover Willy Wonka with the sheet please."

"I'll bet you say that to all the guys," House quipped, covering up his penis and scrotum and laying on his back while she removed the old dressing from the groin incision and inspected it.

"Looks a little pink around two stitches here," She told him. "Hot to the touch, too. You look like you have the beginnings of an infection. I'm going to swab the area and Dr. Chase can get the lab here to do a smear and write you a script for antibiotics."

"Wonderful," House mumbled, frowning. Bonnar found a swab and took the sample, sealing it in the accompanying sterile container and handing it to the intensivist. She finished cleaning the incision and dressing it, then carefully replaced the compression stocking.

"Okay, you can put your pants back on," she told him, turning around throwing out the garbage in the appropriate receptacles before tossing her gloves and washing up. When she turned around House was dressed and on his feet, grabbing his cane off of the back of the wheelchair where it had been hung. He began to walk to the door.

"House, be sure to keep that leg elevated tonight and don't overdo it," Bonnar told him, "unless you want to be lame longer than you need to be."

"Yeah," he groused, "that's my ambition in life. If you haven't already noticed, I'm already crippled."

"Oh, get off the pot!" Bonnar told him, frowning slightly. "You're still able to walk a fair bit with only a few limitations. Your pain, I imagine, is your biggest impediment right now. If you don't want to be pitied, quit pitying yourself."

Chase knew when to get when the getting was good. "I'll run this to the lab. Foreman's probably wondering where I am." He ducked out quickly. House was out the door fairly quickly as well, sans wheelchair. The OB/GYN sighed, shaking her head and followed closely behind, pushing the empty wheelchair to return it.

"Are you pouting about what I just said?" she asked him on the way back to the ICU waiting room.

House said nothing. He wasn't pouting—not at all. And she wasn't right about him pitying himself, either—except, she was. He just didn't like it when others saw and pointed out his weaknesses. He was going to accuse her of not understanding what it was like to lose the ability to do the things that gave her happiness and a sense of satisfaction due to no fault of her own and then checked himself. She had MS; if she hadn't yet, she would eventually lose a great deal.

"Look, I'm sorry if I offended you," she told him after a moment, "but I know all about self-pity and it won't get you anywhere but depressed. You don't strike me as a glass-is-half-full kinda guy but sometimes focusing on the things that are realistically good instead of the bad really does work. I could complain and focus on the trigeminal neuralgia I'm currently experiencing or I can focus on the fact that right about the same this started my vision actually improved. Which focus do you think helps me get through my day without landing into a depressive snit? Will the vision improvement last? Will I be in more pain tomorrow? Who the hell knows? Today, I can clearly see that smirk wanting to burst out onto your face and that's a good thing. I'll deal with tomorrow's shit tomorrow."

"You've been hanging out with Hutton for too long," House told her, allowing his smirk to emerge. "You sound as unrealistically positive as she does."

Bonnar laughed at that. They reached the waiting room and there was no sign of Hutton anywhere. The OB/GYN raised an eyebrow. "I told you she knows what she's doing."

House nodded. He felt good about the fact that Wilson apparently hadn't thrown her out of his room yet but he didn't want to get his hopes up too much. He'd learned the hard way throughout his life that when he made the mistake of hoping to the point of taking it for granted something was going to happen one way, it almost always ended up going the other.


	33. Chapter 33 Part 2 Ch 21

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author. Unbeta-ed, so please forgive any errors I've failed to correct.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **6000

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Twenty-One: Thursday, June 10, 2010; 9:35 A.M.**

Wilson was resting quietly with his eyes closed when Hutton came to the glass door of his room and knocked lightly on it. When there was no response she slid the door open gingerly and peaked in. Wilson heard the movement of the door and opened his eyes, looking in her direction. Upon seeing and recognizing her they lost some warmth but were just as curious.

"Hello, Dr. Wilson," she said to him with a smile. "May I come in?"

He hesitated a moment and then nodded. She entered the room and slid the door shut.

"House said that you were going to be coming," Wilson told her coolly. "I agreed to listen to what you have to say and nothing more."

"Fair enough," she agreed with a nod. She gestured to the chair next to his bed. "May I sit down?"

Wilson nodded again. "You recently had the surgery to remove the adenoma, didn't you?"

"Yes," Hutton admitted with a small smile, "but I'm feeling quite good. Thank you for consulting on my case."

"Is that why you're here—to thank me?" Wilson asked her with a practiced smile. If she hadn't known better she would have been fooled into believing that he was glad she was there. He was good, alright. "You're welcome."

The psychiatrist crossed her legs, relaxing a bit in her seat. "House didn't explain to you why I'm here?"

"He said you came to Princeton to support him last night," the oncologist answered smoothly. "I'm glad he had someone he felt he could trust there for him."

Hutton nodded, thinking carefully about the words she chose. "He was very upset when he called me. In fact, I was quite worried about him. I came to make certain that he wasn't sitting worrying alone. He was certain you were going to die at one point, around midnight. Your heart stopped for about a minute before they managed to get it beating again."

Wilson looked at her suspiciously. "He didn't tell me that."

"I'm not surprised," she answered soberly. "He lost it for a while. One of the docs here had to give him Ativan. He looks stronger than he really is. He puts on a good show, kind of like you are right now."

Wilson grinned as if immensely amused by her. "You don't pull any punches, do you?"

"No, I don't," Hutton replied. "I respect you too much to blow sunshine up your ass when it's actually raining cats and dogs. I know you don't like me, Dr. Wilson. I'm not entirely certain why not but that's not important right now. I'm here for one reason and one reason only."

His eyebrows moved closer to each other. "And why's that?"

"To protect House from falling back to the state he was in the first time I met him," she stated. "That was one hell of a scary place he was in."

"I know," Wilson assured her, his smile fading away completely. "I was the one who grabbed him when he leapt off of the roof of this hospital."

"Alright then," Hutton acknowledged. She smoothed out a wrinkle in her grey pencil skirt. "Dr. Wilson, I'm not betraying any trust when I say that you are the most important person in Dr. House's life bar none. Trying to commit suicide last night was akin to taking a gun and trying to shoot a bullet into his heart."

"Are you trying to guilt me, Dr Hutton?" Wilson sat up straighter in his bed, frowning at her indignantly.

"I'm simply stating a fact. If you feel guilty about it then that's something you should take a look at." Hutton set her jaw, staring intensely into his eyes. "What I would like to know is what it was that led you to drink that much."

"That's none of your business," Wilson told her, appearing to grow angry.

"If it affects my patient, it becomes my business," she answered, feeling frustrated. "House was hoping that I would be able to find out why you're drinking as heavily as you are and to encourage you to seek treatment for alcohol abuse, but after talking to you for such a short time as this I can tell that you're not ready for treatment. Let me assure you, Doctor, that whether or not you are addicted to alcohol you do have an abuse problem. Dr. Chase was the one who put you on the psych hold, not me and not upon my recommendation. Anyone who nearly kills himself from drink has a problem. But, I know that you're unwilling to admit to having a problem I won't waste my breath on that any further."

Wilson shook his head, frowning quizzically. "So what the hell is it that you want from me?—you must want something or you wouldn't be here sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong. So tell me what it is or get the hell out."

Hutton stood. "I want you to decide what it is that you want! If you love House and you want to be with him then you need to get help first and then join him in Philadelphia, because whether you like it or not that is now his home and throwing some kind of passive-aggressive pity party isn't going to change that. If it were going to, it would have already. If you want him, do what you need to do to make that a possibility. If you've decided that you don't want to pursue a relationship with him then say so, once and for all, and then let him go so he can mourn the loss of something he has longed for, for years and move on with his life. Cut the mixed signals because this on-again, off-again game is tearing him apart—and by the looks of it it's not doing a lot of good for you either. It's time to grow up and make a choice, tell him what you've chosen, and then follow through. So what is it? What do _you_ want from _House_?"

Wilson glowered at her in fury, crossing his arms in front of him. "I've listened to what you had to say. I kept my word to House. Now get out of my room or I'll call security and have you removed from the hospital."

"I have temporary hospital rights here," she told him calmly, "and I'm not intimidated by bullies and their threats. Now I know what it is about you that bothers me. All along you've been bullying House to do things your way because you know he would do anything to make you happy. You don't threaten physical harm or blackmail—that's too obvious and you're all about quiet manipulation and masks to hide who you really are. No, your threat is an implicit one: make me happy, House, or I'll leave you. You know that he needs you more than you need him so you have all the power in your friendship. This way you don't have to work very hard to be a lackluster friend to him but he has to nearly kill himself to be acceptable enough for you."

"That's not true!" Wilson insisted. "I love House!"

"When it's convenient to you, then yes, I believe you do," the psychiatrist told him, "but when it becomes inconvenient or uncomfortable then you punish him by pushing him away. You know that he'll still be there when you feel like spending time with him again, just like the discarded toy in the bottom of the toy box. That's been the pattern of your relationship with him for years now.

"But now, House is getting better. He's realizing that he is worthwhile for reasons other than just being James Wilson's friend. It's becoming clear to him that he has so much to offer that people are attracted to him for him and he doesn't have to accept second best or wait until you feel like acknowledging him again. He's learning to like himself, to trust people and himself and that scares you to death, doesn't it? It scares you because you're beginning to realize that you are no longer his only friend and source of support so you can't hold your friendship over his head and threaten to take it away if he displeases you. You're losing control and you have no idea what to do to get it back so you're spiraling. Am I right?"

"He's manipulated and used _me _for years!" Wilson shouted, trembling; there were tears in his eyes threatening to escape. "For the majority of the years we've known each other he never told me that he cared! He manipulated me by setting himself up to be hurt, to get into an accident, to overdose, coming closer and closer to death each time and not giving a damn about what that did to _me_! Every time I would try to find some kind of stability and happiness in my life he would do something to mess it up. He helped destroy two of my marriages and tried to sabotage every date I've had since meeting him. He pushed the envelope time and time again, testing to see how much further he could push me before I gave up on him and didn't come back. But he knew I would because he knows that I need him as much as he needs me! But then he was the reason my girlfriend was where she was when she was hurt and as a result died. He didn't kill her, but if he hadn't been drunk and needing a ride she would have been in that warm bed of ours when that garbage truck hit that bus! Even after I came back he kept pushing, testing. Yet you stand there, not knowing the entire story, and call me manipulative and abusive? Well, fuck you, you bitch! You're changing him…changing him in ways I never could. He's becoming someone I don't know anymore. I'm getting left behind. I gave up my girlfriend for him, what may have been my last chance at a normal life and relationship and then he tells me he's not coming home. He was expecting me to give up even more. I'm scared. The man I loved is gone. The man who has replaced him…is better off without someone as fucked up as I am, and if I move to Philadelphia and leave everything behind and then this stranger decides it was a mistake to ask me to join him in his new life, where does that leave me?"

"Dr. Wilson," Hutton said softly trying to interrupt but he wouldn't let her. Everything that had been held back and hidden under pressure was now spewing forth out of control.

"I decided to take the risk anyway," Wilson told her, tears falling. "I received a bite from a hospital in Camden, they were looking for a chief of oncology. It was a step down career-wise, but it meant I could join House. I had an interview set up for yesterday morning. The chief administrator slotted me in at the last minute…and I'm so fucked up that I got drunk the night before and slept through my alarm. For three hours. I missed the interview. When I called back to apologize and rebook I was informed that the position had been filled. No job there, no job here, no other responses to my CVs. I realized that I was part of the miserable past House is leaving behind. I know that I enabled his self-destructive behavior and then got gratification from being the only one who could rescue him. I liked being known as the House-whisperer, being the only one who halfway understood him and the only one he trusted enough to open up to. If that isn't sick and twisted, I don't know what is and I know that House deserves better. I've been miserable since that realization so last night I drowned my sorrows and took a triple dose of my antidepressant while I was at it. That's why I nearly died. And nobody caught it because my chart shows that I take it so when it showed up on the tox screen they undoubtedly ran they didn't look any further than that to determine how much I took."

The room was silent except for the soft sniffles from Wilson as he fought to stop crying.

"Dr. Wilson," Hutton said again, softening, "I'm sorry I baited you just now, but I couldn't think of any other way to get you to let down the façade and tell me the truth. I'm not changing House…he's healing and becoming who he was always supposed to be but was held back from being by the circumstances of his life. He loves you and wants you. He doesn't want to leave you behind. The people he's getting to know are no better or worse than you. We're all human with tons of baggage. There's nothing wrong with you that you can't overcome…but you're going to need help to do it."

The oncologist looked away from her. "I can't afford to take the time for the kind of treatment I need, Dr. Hutton. It's best for House if I make a clean break, move away and find work and then get the help. I don't know how long that's going to take and I can't ask House to wait in limbo when there are no guarantees what will end up happening. I don't want to do this, but I have to, for House. I'm choosing to let him go."

Hutton felt her heart drop into her stomach. This was not the choice she'd been hoping he would make. He still didn't understand that his need for treatment was immediate. Not six months away once he's found the right job and settled into the right home and it's finally the right time because she knew that there were no such things, places or times except for the here and now. His problem wouldn't go away and that would impede his efforts drastically. The lower he spiraled, the harder it would be on House.

"If you're looking for the perfect time and situation to get help then you'll never get help because there isn't one," Hutton told him firmly. "The time is _now_. If it's a financial hardship then there are ways to work around that. If you don't enter treatment right away your chance of your life getting any better is very, very slim. I've seen this scenario over and over again. If you want to help House the most, then you need to get help for yourself right away. I know of an excellent program that is ninety days long in Philadelphia—"

"I've made my decision," Wilson cut her off, shaking his head. "I have family in Chicago. I'm going to head that direction. My cousin has a practice. He once said that he wanted me as a partner but I was already working here. That might be something for me to seriously consider."

"I can make some phone calls and get you some information about treatment programs in Illinois, if you like." Hutton offered. "After that, who knows? Maybe when you and House talk about your decision you can work out an arrangement to be together after you've completed your program."

"I'm not telling House," Wilson told her. Before she could protest, he added, "and I'm not giving you permission to tell him either. House needs to move on, just in case…things don't work out the way I hope they will. If he's still willing and available later then maybe…but this conversation remains here, is that understood? Now, please leave."

Hutton stared back at him in disbelief. She wanted to shout at him that this was so unnecessary, that he and House could still be together but she didn't. She wasn't going to get through to him, and she was certain that he wasn't going to get therapy wherever he chose to go. He was running away from his demons while standing on a treadmill.

Now she had to go out to House, unable to tell him anything about what was going to happen and stand by to help pick up the pieces when the diagnostician found out on his own.

When Hutton walked into the waiting room both House and Bonnar looked up expectantly. House could tell right away by the look in the psychiatrist's eyes that things hadn't gone well in spite of her effort to look positive.

"Hi, guys," she said to them and sat down with them.

"Well?" House spoke up. "How did it go?"

He watched Hutton's body language, her expression. She looked tense and the muscles in her face were pulsing a little. She was obviously having a trouble keeping her game face on.

"Not great," she answered, "but as I told you before I went in I have to respect his rights so I can't tell you anything about our conversation. I'm sorry House. If you want to know what was said you'll have to find out from Wilson. I suggest you try and not give up easily."

House sighed, frowning. He wanted to drag the information out of Hutton but he knew her hands were tied. The subtext he heard was that Wilson had either completely rejected what she had to say no matter what she tried or he told her something about what he was going to do but forbade her to say what, not that she could have anyway. It was obviously something very important or else she wouldn't have stressed to him to not give up. House rose to his feet and grabbed his cane.

"I'm not leaving here until I find out what the hell is going on," he growled in frustration and headed in the direction of Wilson's room. House didn't bother announcing himself but simply walked in. Wilson looked up at him, his face hardening. The diagnostician barely recognized the man in front of him anymore.

"She told you my decision, didn't she?" Wilson demanded, scowling. "I hope she has a good lawyer."

House shook his head. "She said nothing. You've told me more just now than she did. You've made a decision? Have you decided to get help or are you a complete moron who'll continue what he's doing until he kills himself? Because if this is your way to commit suicide there are much quicker and less painful ways to do it."

"I'm not trying to commit suicide, House," Wilson replied. "It's none of your business what I've decided to do."

"How do you figure that?" the diagnostician asked, standing at the foot of his bed. "I'm your best friend. You love me. You want to be with me. How doesn't that make it my business?" He was terrified, now. His instincts told him that something very bad was about to happen. Part of him wanted to run away and pretend nothing was wrong. That had been the way their friendship had worked for so long; they'd never talked about anything. He couldn't run away though because he was afraid that if he did he would never see the oncologist alive again.

"No," Wilson told him quietly, his voice turning hard. He looked away from House. "You're wrong. I've been thinking. Ever since you tried to kill yourself everything in my life has gone downhill. I admitted to you that I loved you, but you decided to move away from me. Everything has been about you—_your_ mental health, _your_ new life, _your_ new job, _your_ new friends. Well, I'm _not_ new House, and I don't want to change to please you. You either love me the way I am or you don't love me at all. That's not going to happen—we both know that. I can't go on hoping for something that's never going to happen. You need to move on with your life? Well, so do I."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," House told him, completely baffled. He limped around to stand next to him. "I've never asked you to be someone you're not. I will always want you in my life."

"I'm done arguing about it," Wilson said. "Maybe a year ago this would have worked."

House's heart fell. "What are you saying?"

"I don't want to be with you, House," Wilson told him, "not as your lover…and not as your friend."

"You don't mean that," House told him, trying hard to keep his voice from betraying the fact that his world was beginning to fall apart. "You tried to leave me and end our friendship before and you couldn't. You had to come back. We need each other."

"You don't need me anymore," the oncologist told him coldly, "and _I'm_ better off without _you_. House, you and I are no longer friends. I don't want to see you or hear from you ever again. If you harass me I'll get a restraining order; I will not take your phone calls, I won't answer your emails. After twenty years of abuse and manipulation, it's over. Now leave and don't come back. Leave your key to the loft at the nursing station and go."

House was speechless. It was a flashback of two years before. It had to be a joke—a _very bad _joke, but looking at Wilson House saw nothing but hostility. He felt like he couldn't breathe, or think, or move. This wasn't happening, not again. It couldn't be. It was impossible.

"You promised me you wouldn't do this again," House told him, shaking his head. He swallowed hard to control his emotions. "You said that we can't pick our friends—"

"Perhaps you didn't hear me the first time so I'll say it again," Wilson said to him angrily. "Get the hell out of my room!"

"Wilson," House insisted, "you can't mean this!"

Wilson pressed the call button for the nurse and said nothing. One arrived quickly to whom Wilson said, "I do not want this man in my room but he refuses to leave. Call security."

"Not necessary," House told her, his voice threatening to betray him. "I'm leaving."

He looked at Wilson one last time but the younger man denied him even that, rolling over onto his side facing away from him. House swallowed hard again and then walked out of the room; he was now working on automatic, limping heavily past the ICU waiting room without a look at Hutton or Bonnar. He had to leave, to get as far away from all other human beings as he could get. Everything was collapsing, all that he'd worked at, all of the hard work he'd done, the improvements he made to better himself, to make himself worthy of Wilson's love and the respect of others, it was all meaningless. Once again he'd done everything right…and had failed again.

Wilson was the only person in the world House had been able to trust, to feel safe around, to be himself around. Now…now there was no one.

Hutton and Bonnar had seen him walk past without so much as a glance in their direction and were immediately in pursuit of him but he didn't even notice. Bonnar reached him first, standing in front of him to block his progress. He glared at her and tried to go around her.

"House!" he heard Hutton say from behind him, "House, stop. Stop! We need to talk!"

She caught up to him and grabbed his arm. He jerked it away from her but she grabbed it again and forced him to face her.

"Just…just let me go," House told her, his voice so soft and quiet that it was difficult to hear him. "Please."

"Not a chance," Hutton told him sternly. "If I let you go in the frame of mind you're in right now I might as well put a loaded gun in your hand."

"I've done everything you asked of me," he told her, losing his control over his emotions. His volume rose with the intensity of his feelings. "And I'm alone. Just let me go and leave me alone! Get the hell away from me!"

"No!" Hutton yelled back, her hazel eyes blazing. "I made a promise to you that I would always be there for you if you needed someone and I'm sure as hell not going to break my promise. You are not alone. House, look at me. Look at me!"

House moved his eyes to look at her and as soon as he saw the look of sincerity in her eyes he felt the tears coming and didn't want to be seen crying by anyone, especially in PPTH. She appeared to sense that. Hutton looked around herself and spying a bathroom grabbed House's hand and pulled him towards it. She pushed open the door to the men's room.

"Anyone in there?" she called out. There was no answer so she pulled him inside and then said to Bonnar, "Linda, will you stand watch?"

"You bet," the blonde assured her with a nod. House allowed himself to be led into the farthest booth from the door where Hutton made him sit down on the toilet and then crouched down in front of him. She grabbed his face gently with both hands and forced him to look her in the eye.

"Focus on me, House," she instructed him. "Don't look away. What did Wilson say to you? You need to tell me. I'm here for you. I've not going anywhere. Tell me what he said."

House wanted to believe that he could trust her when she said she wouldn't abandon him too but he couldn't. If Wilson, of all people, wanted nothing to do with him anymore, then nobody could be trusted to stay.

"Tell me," she whispered with an intensity that House felt.

He wanted to tell her. He wanted to, he wanted to…

"He never wants to see me again," House answered in surrender. "Our friendship is over. Everything's over…" he couldn't speak anymore because of the lump in his throat that he couldn't swallow. It was choking him, and the growing tension in his chest made it hard to breathe. He kept swallowing until he found his voice again. "Fuck this!" he whispered. "Fuck this. Fuck trying to get better. Fuck me. Fuck my future, fuck my life and fuck you! Fuck you, Hutton! Fuck you for making me believe you when you said there was hope! There's no hope. There's nothing—" His words were choked off by the sob that exploded out of him. House began to cry harder than he had in a long time. It was both cathartic and agonizing at the same time, and came out of him with moans of anguish. "I hate him," he cried. "I hate you!"

Hutton pulled him into an embrace, holding him as closely as she could and allowing him to sob into her shoulder, his body lurching with each one. At first he fought her but after a few moments decided to give up. The psychiatrist's blouse was quickly soaked by his tears. His arms slowly rose to wrap around her. In the back of his mind he acknowledged how good it felt to be held in a tender, non-sexual, comforting manner, to feel a hand rubbing his back gently. She didn't offer him platitudes or false promises that everything would be alright. She just held him close and let him fall apart on her. He'd never felt so completely vulnerable and exposed and it terrified him so he squeezed her tighter, trying to use her as a shield to protect him so that no one else could see who he was with all of his walls broken down.

House didn't see the tears on her face until after he'd cried himself out and there wasn't enough energy left in him for one more sob he calmed eventually until he was able to let go of her. She released the bear hug she had on him and he slowly withdrew, trying to pull what shreds of his dignity were left back over himself like a blanket. Hutton grabbed her purse from where she'd dropped it on the floor and pulled out two tissues, one for him and the other for her.

He quickly wiped the tears and snot off of his face and then blew his nose.

House cleared his throat. "Why the hell are you crying?" he demanded gruffly.

Hutton shrugged and gave him a sad smile. "I can't help it. When I see someone I care about hurting, I hurt too. That's how it is with friends."

House had no idea what she meant. He'd never had anyone who reacted that way to him. Wilson had shown him sympathy, but this was something deeper than sympathy. She was empathizing with him. This is what it meant to be a friend? It was a concept foreign to him.

"No one ever hears about this," he said to her, his eyes almost pleading with her.

"No one," she told him. "I know you feel like giving up, but I'm encouraging you not to. You're not alone anymore, and you don't have to go through this all by yourself. Don't hide from the people who care about you—let them be there for you. It doesn't mean you're weak if you lean on others once in a while, because you never know when they're going to need to lean on you."

"I failed," House insisted.

"No," Hutton told him sincerely. "Wilson failed. He failed you but even worse, he's failing himself. That's not your fault, there's nothing more you could have done or _can_ do to change that. He now has to face this alone, whatever happens. You can't save him so now you need to save yourself and keep saving yourself every day. Pearls before swine, House; pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and keep going."

House nodded once. She was right. There was nothing more he could do. He didn't know if he could go on without Wilson there with him, but he had to somehow. The only alternative was to give up and that carried with it a death sentence. He didn't want to die, not anymore.

"Will Wilson be okay?" House questioned, knowing the answer before he even asked.

Hutton placed a hand on House's forearm and gave it an encouraging rub. "That's up to him. Now—you look like shit, House. Splash some cold water on your face, run your fingers through what little hair you still have on your head and I'll buy lunch before Linda and I take you to your apartment so you can lie down and get some real sleep."

"You're a bitch," he told her, smirking.

"I know," she told him with a wink. She stood up and backed out of the stall so he could get past her. They both did their best to cover up the fact that anything had just happened there before leaving the bathroom.

Bonnar said to Hutton in a stage whisper, "Did you straighten him out or do I have to put a hurt on him to keep him in line?"

"Fuck you, Bonnar," House muttered as they walked together to the elevator. He was fighting a smile.

"Fuck you too," she replied mildly, smirking.

The elevator arrived and the three entered the car after allowing the previous passengers to step off.

"Wow," Hutton grumbled, rolling her eyes. "I can just _feel_ the love."

**Thursday, June 10, 2010; 11:20 A.M.**

Wilson stared up at the ceiling. His face was red, as were his eyes, and he still shuddered when he breathed. He dried his face on the blanket. That was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do in his life. House was the only real friend he had and he loved him more than he'd ever loved anyone in his life, but if there was one thing he'd learned in life it was that love wasn't always enough.

He knew he was fucked up but didn't care enough to do anything about it at this stage. This is where Wilson's pride and bitterness had brought him. House needed more and better than what he could give him; he was finally back on the right track and Wilson didn't want to be the one to drag him down which he would, inevitably, if they were together. He'd been the cause of House's most recent breakdown but he wouldn't be again. They were toxic for each other and their friendship had only worked when they both were dysfunctional, but House wasn't nearly as dysfunctional as before. Wilson knew that _he_ was. House was hurting right now, but he would heal, and someday he would find happiness; at least the oncologist hoped so. As for himself, he had no hope anymore and he couldn't even deceive himself into believing that he did.

Wilson had long since accepted the fact that he would always be a screw up but at least he did one truly altruistic act. He only hoped that someday House would understand and forgive him.


	34. Chapter 34 Part 2 Ch 22

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **

**Rating: M (NC-17)**for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Two: Transformation**

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Friday, June 11, 2010; 8:00 A.M.**

Friday was moving day for House, something he had been looking forward to because it was the first step in establishing himself in Philadelphia but he hadn't been looking forward to the amount of walking and carrying that would be involved; he also felt strange about having the number of people he did that had volunteered to help him with his move. It had ballooned from just Chase and him to Hutton and her daughter Stephania, Bonnar and her husband Gary (who House had never even met), and Anderson and his brother. He felt almost embarrassed about having these people, whom he had known for only a short time, and their relatives, take their day to help him. He didn't like to accept help and was too proud to ask for it (he'd _ordered_ Chase to help him). Hutton had assured him that there was nothing to feel embarrassed about and nobody expected anything from him in return but nevertheless he was very uncomfortable with the situation.

Hutton and Bonnar had returned with House to his apartment after lunch the previous day and had spent the afternoon _helping_House pack; Bonnar had gathered and lifted, Hutton had organized and boxed and House had supervised from his sofa. Right around five o'clock Hutton had begun to fade and Bonnar had taken her back to their hotel to rest. House had spent the evening alone in his apartment soaking his aching leg in a hot bath, playing his piano to keep his mind off of Wilson, and sitting on the sofa in front of the TV watching porn with unusual disinterest. After an hour or so of that he decided to go for a ride on his motorcycle.

It was dark out and threatening rain. He'd driven around Princeton for a while, remembering things that had happened at different locations during his years living there. He had passed the bar where Wilson and he had drowned their sorrows after Bonnie kicked him out; the hotel where Wilson had stayed following his divorce from Julie (when he wasn't sleeping on House's couch) until he'd moved in with Cutthroat Bitch. The diagnostician smiled ruefully when he thought about Amber, and how jealous he had been of her when she and Wilson were together. It had been during that period that House had gone from loving his best friend to being _in_love with him, but admitting that fact to himself hadn't come until he stood at the main doors of Mayfield his first time there and looked down the long driveway at the oncologist, who stood next to his car and stared up sadly at him. Hallucination Amber had been crowing in one ear about how much pain he'd caused Wilson while Hallucination Kutner had told him it wasn't true and to follow his heart in the other.

His route had taken him into Plainsboro and past PPTH. He'd experienced melancholy knowing that Wilson had cut ties with him there just hours earlier. He was glad he would no longer have to walk into that lobby and worry about trying to pass the clinic without Cuddy catching him and forcing him to work his clinic hours or put up with imbecile walk-ins to said clinic who didn't know their elbows from their knees or know better than to try to grab the wedding band they dropped into the blender while it was still running. He would miss his office, and the moments during the differentials when one of his ducklings actually lit up with illumination and had the diagnosis they had spent days hunting for. He would miss hiding from Cuddy or his team in Wilson's office while the oncologist did his paperwork (or tried to do his paperwork) and debating over the oddest of trivia or issues he'd made up in his head on the fly, or sitting in the cafeteria at lunch stealing his best friend's fries and making up stories about or diagnosing the various people in line to pay, to the amusement of said best friend. Or, rather, now it was his _former_ best friend.

Realizing that the common element in nearly every memory he'd been having was Wilson, House had sighed despondently. Princeton had meant pain and frustration for the diagnostician, but it had also meant Wilson in his life. Wilson had been the only part of that place that he'd wanted to take with him when he left; he hadn't known how he was going to be able to leave town for good without him. House had driven past his and Wilson's favorite diner, the bowling alley they'd gone to together, the golf course where he'd collapsed from the pain of the infarction that had eventually led to the removal of a large part of his thigh and life.

The last place he'd gone to before returning to his apartment for his last night's sleep there had been a park overlooking a small lake. He'd stopped and walked to a bench where he'd sat and listened to the frogs and crickets instead of the noise of traffic and urban living. He'd gone to that spot a few times in the past when he'd not wanted to drink himself shit-faced but rather had wanted to think. He'd thought about what life would be like without Wilson to go to when he had a problem to work out or an epiphany to stumble upon. He'd decided that he would never again be able to watch a Hitchcock flick because the only reason he'd ever watched them in the first place was because Wilson had wanted to. Sitting on the sofa with beer and pizza would never be the same without him. He'd realized that he would no longer have someone to go with him to monster truck rallies and shows, either.

In a very real way, House had come to the conclusion that until the oncologist got help he was dead to him. That had brought on a few more private tears and a lot of bitterness, which House had gladly welcomed instead of the melancholy.

He'd headed back to the apartment after that and had gone straight to bed but sleep hadn't come until the wee hours of the morning.

For that reason House had literally growled into the phone when Bonnar had given him a wake-up call at seven a.m. that morning. She'd bribed him with coffee and breakfast delivered by her when she and Hutton arrived at eight thirty if he would get out of bed and be dressed when they got there. Normally House would have balked at such a measly bribe but he was hungry and knew there was a lot to be done before his date with Justin Clee that evening.

House had considered calling Clee and cancelling, considering he was in grieving over Wilson but it had been Bonnar that had pointed out to him that before he'd come to Princeton on Wednesday he'd assumed that Wilson would be moving away anyway, so nothing had actually changed as far as that went and besides, she'd informed him, great sex was just what the doctor ordered to get him past his blues. Hutton hadn't seemed too much in agreement with that but she hadn't spoken against it either. So the diagnostician had decided that he would keep the date and see how things went between him and the vascular surgeon. Nothing had to happen if he didn't want it too, or if Clee was even inclined to right away.

The doorbell signaled the arrival of the women. He let them into the apartment, the smells of gourmet coffee, cinnamon and sugar hitting his nose the moment he opened the door. Bonnar carried a paper sack in one hand and a venti-sized cup of coffee in the other.

"Where would you like this?" she asked him.

"In my mouth, and then my stomach," House replied, taking the coffee and sack and heading for the living room where he sat down on the sofa and set the items down onto the coffee table. "After that I don't care."

Hutton smiled as she took Bonnar's jacket and purse and hung them up before joining House on the sofa. "Somebody seems to be in a good mood. Did you sleep well?"

"Nope," House told her honestly, "but that's nothing new. I spent most of last night thinking about Wilson and came to a conclusion."

Bonnar sat down in an armchair. "And what's that?"

"He has to hit rock bottom before he'll be willing to climb back up," House replied. "That's the only way he'll admit that he needs help. That could take years, and I'm not getting any younger."

"Makes sense," the OB/GYN told him with an approving nod.

"So specifically, what does that mean," Hutton asked him.

"I'm going to keep the date," he sighed, opening the sack and smiling ear to ear. Bear claws and a cinnamon bun wrapped in plastic wrap. He pulled out a bear claw and held it out to Hutton. She looked confused by his action.

"I had breakfast," she told him, eyeing the pastry like it was offal. "That's for you."

House didn't pull the bear claw back. He looked to Bonnar and asked, "What did she have for breakfast?"

"A bowl of farina with apple sauce and peppermint tea," Bonnar answered, staring at her best friend pointedly. "She refused to eat anything more, claiming that she was full."

"You're not full," House declared, turning his attention back to the psychiatrist. "Take the bear claw and eat it of your own accord or I'll force feed you. You need to gain back as much of the weight you lost as quickly as you can. Along with the ulcers and tumors you suffered involuntary anorexia which has left you severely underweight. Remember the discharge instructions you were given."

"But honestly, I'm not hungry!" Hutton protested but didn't find any sympathy from the other two. With a sigh she took the bear claw from House and took a reluctant bite, glaring at them.

House grabbed another one from the paper sack and began to devour his own.

After they finished eating Bonnar set to dusting and cleaning the bookcases as House helped clear the top shelves and Hutton the bottom. House couldn't stay on his leg for long at all because he'd seriously overtaxed it over the previous two days. He didn't really have a problem with watching, however, so long as Hutton rested frequently and didn't overdo it herself.

"You certainly have a lot of books," Hutton told him approvingly.

He shrugged, "I guess so. Most of them I've picked up over the years, a few were gifts."

Hutton looked around the living room which was beginning to look quite barren with things boxed for transfer. "Are you going to miss this place?"

House shook his head and sighed silently. "This was never home, although, ironically, it was here that I lived the longest period of time in my life. This place represents Stacy's leaving, years of suffering due to my leg, and loneliness. There were some good times—movie, pizza and beer nights with Wilson mostly. I have no sentimental attachment to it."

"What have you decided to do with it?" Bonnar asked. "Sell?"

"Lease out," he answered. "There's a couple moving here from New York who are interested in it."

Around nine-thirty the doorbell rang again. Bonnar answered it for House. It was a man approximately House's age who was built like a tank—huge, lean and strong—with slate grey and black hair dragging a dolly behind him and a young woman House recognized as Stephania Hutton. She wore short cutoffs and a T-shirt that read 'I've put off procrastinating for the day". House smirked at that. The giant grabbed Bonnar around the waist and pulled her closer to give her a rather passionate kiss. He assumed that was Gary.

"Get in here," Bonnar told them, breaking the embrace. "Gary this is Greg House whose life we're moving today. House, this is my husband Gary."

Gary walked over to where House was sitting, offering his hand. House sighed inwardly and shook his hand briefly. "How do you do, House?"

"Hi," House muttered, feeling self-conscious but trying for the world not to show it. Gary Bonnar had strong, calloused hands and smelled like diesel fuel. "You drive truck?"

Bonnar looked at the diagnostician in mild surprise; she hadn't told him that.

"Yeah," Gary answered, not as surprised as his wife.

"How did you know that?" Bonnar asked him. "I don't remember mentioning it to you."

Once again House shrugged. It amazed him how little attention people paid to the things around them. "He smells of diesel fuel, he has calloused hands which means his job involves manual labor so likely not an office worker or professional, his upper body appears stronger than his bottom, suggesting that what he does may involve lifting sometimes but not much lower body exertion; driving doesn't require much lower body activity. He's wearing steel-toed boots which are minimally scuffed compared to the way they would be worn away by a construction worker, and what scuffing there is can be found on the leather above the heel and the sole on both boots is worn more in the heel, the right boot more so than the left. The biggest give away is the tan lines around his eyes and along the temple where you can tell he wears UV protective sunglasses when he drives during the day."

"Who are you?" Stephania asked with a curious smile, "Sherlock Holmes or something?"

A smirk twitched at the corners of the diagnostician's mouth. "My job involves seeing signs and symptoms in patients that other doctors generally miss. It's a handy skill for other areas of life, too."

"Didn't Gage and Bryce leave with the five ton before you?" Bonnar asked her husband.

"We saw Bryce driving that thing through a McDonald's drive-thru about eight blocks from here. They're coming," Gary smirked, amused. "About that piano…"

"I hired piano movers," House told him in response. "They are supposed to be here around noon."

"Phew," Gary responded, grinning. "I wasn't looking forward to the hernia. I don't have a single decent truss in my closet to wear. Say, you like Baseball?"

"Oh God," Bonnar groaned, shaking her head in mock dread and going to the kitchen to make coffee for everyone. "Gary, one more testosterone-oozing person in our house Sundays and the fire department is going to fine us for a fire code violation!"

"But Babe, there's always room for one more," Gary called after her. "We'll move the chaise lounge to the garage for the day."

"_We'll_ move it?" she called back.

Her husband rolled his eyes and corrected, "_I'll_move it." He directed himself to House again. "Seriously, I have a ceiling mounted projector and DTS sound system. I project it against the wall; the players are _life-sized_ and the image is _perfect_. The cover charge is BYOB and a bag of snacks, whatever you like. You're welcome to join us. Come early if you want one of the leather recliners."

"How many is 'us'?" House inquired, a little warily. He didn't like people in general, especially a lot of them. Of course, it _was_ baseball…

"Oh, about fifteen guys on average," Gary answered.

"Try twenty," Bonnar answered, leaving the coffee to brew and joining everyone in the living room again. "On the last game of the World Series last year he packed thirty-five belching and farting men in our basement. He served chili dogs. I had to have professional fumigators in the next day."

Hutton and Stephania laughed at that one and House allowed himself a smirk.

"I'll think about it," House told him sincerely.

"They have farting and burping contests during the seventh inning stretch," Bonnar told him as if she was trying to persuade him to say yes. "Best one in each category wins a prize."

"That's just disgusting!" Stephania commented, but she was grinning.

"Uh, excuse me?" Gary said to her indignantly. "That fart of yours on the way up here would have won the prize last week for both volume and potency."

Stephania turned beat red and gave him a dirty look.

"Sounds like a case of like mother like daughter," House tossed in, catching Bonnar's eye before looking for Hutton's reaction. There was laughter from everyone in the room but the psychiatrist (everyone must have heard the story once or twice before) who looked accusingly at her best friend. The OB/GYN shook her head and pointed at House. Hutton suddenly turned on House, blushing.

"You weren't asleep!" she accused him, a smile tugging at her mouth in spite of her embarrassment. "You were eavesdropping! You cooked your own goose, buddy. I'm not going to fall for that one again. You're not getting away with anything from now on. In fact, I think I'm going to announce what today is in revenge."

House hoped that it wasn't what he thought it was but the self-satisfied gleam in her eye spoke otherwise. He shook his head. "That's privileged information!"

"It's public record," Hutton told him, apparently enjoying his discomfort. "Besides, I didn't get that from you or your file. Dr. Chase mentioned it the night before last."

"What?" Bonnar asked, voicing the curiosity of the others.

House rose from his seat rather quickly for someone with an aching, lame leg. "So, who's up for watching TV until the truck arrives?"

"Sure," Bonnar agreed, "right after you tell us what today is besides moving day."

Groaning in resignation, House looked down at the floor and closed his eyes briefly. In a very soft voice he muttered, "It's my birthday."

"Sorry," Bonnar said, "didn't hear you. What did you say?"

House threw her a look of death. "I said, it's the anniversary of the day fifty-two years ago that my mother's only child was delivered after several hours of labor. Now, this is a day I do not celebrate and I don't want to start today!"

"You're fifty-two?" Stephania asked and then quickly corrected herself. "I mean you're fifty-one because your first birthday was one year after to the day you were born. I got it now."

"Wonderful," House told her mirthlessly. He glared at Hutton again, angry at her for bringing it up. She returned his look with one of confusion. She obviously didn't understand why he was upset. The diagnostician knew that it wasn't really fair to be angry at her. He'd never mentioned to her that he hated the unnecessary fuss and phony best wishes that came along with birthdays and other milestones of that type. It's not like he'd done anything to be congratulated for, anyway. If anyone should have received praise today it would be his mother for going through nineteen hours of back labor to squeeze out a small watermelon coming sunny-side up and butting his head against her tailbone most of the way. Even the day he was born he was a pain in the coccyx. Why would people want to celebrate that?

His message had gotten through, though. There was no more teasing about his birthday. It was a little tense in the room for a minute or two but that was broken by the doorbell.

"I'll get it," Stephania announced, bounding for the door. Everyone expected it to be the Anderson brothers but instead it was Chase. House watched the facial expression and body language of the adolescent when she got a look at the newcomer and wasn't disappointed.

"Oh," the young woman said in surprise and her face almost instantly flushed as her eyes did one very quick sweep of the Australian and then a little smile crossed her lips; she tilted her head slightly to the side and tucked her right foot behind the heel of her left. "Hi."

"Hi," he replied, smiling pleasantly. "I'm Dr. Chase. I'm here to help House move."

"Oh," she said, not moving to allow him in. Her left hand rested lightly on the exterior door knob of the open door and the right arm slid behind her back, causing her shoulders to roll back which in turn forced her chest forward a little. "I'm Stephania Hutton, but people usually call me Steph." She flipped her hair over her shoulder. _Is flirtation a matter of_ _nature or nurture_? House bemused. _Most likely a combination of the two_.

House wondered if she realized that the smile on Chase's face was one of amusement and indulgence, not attraction, which was a good thing for _him_; if he had been looking at her like he _liked_ what he was seeing House would have to take him aside for a 'discussion'. Fifteen going on sixteen was definitely too young, even in House's more liberal way of seeing things.

"Uh, may I come in?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows questioningly before looking over and past her at the adults assembled in the living room.

"Oh, right!" Stephania responded, catching the hint and stepping aside with the door behind her and both hands behind her back pressed against it. "Sorry. Come in." She smiled at him again tilting her head slightly to the other side.

"Thanks," Chase said as he walked past her into the apartment. Two teenage eyes watched the intensivist's ass as he passed her. House couldn't completely repress a smile and settled on a smirk instead. Once again pretty boy Chase caught the female eye without having to try at all. House had to admit he did have a nice ass—for a wombat.

Stephania began to close the front door and nearly slammed it into Gage Anderson's face as he and his brother, who was about the same height and build as the pediatrician, arrived. They also had a dolly with them.

"Whoa, girl!" Anderson said, putting out a hand to block the door.

Stephania gasped and pulled the door open again. "Sorry Gage!" She instantly transformed from flirt to little girl.

"No damage done," he told her with a fond smile and a wink. "You remember Bryce, don't you?"

"From the BBQ last year," she nodded. "How's it going?"

"Never better," Bryce told her as they too joined everyone in the living room. After closing the door Stephania joined them, placing a hand on Anderson's arm and leaning against him like one would a wall. He didn't even react.

House couldn't get over how tight this group of individuals, besides him and Chase, were. House had never encountered such affection for each other in a group of non-related people before. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he saw this kind of interaction in family gatherings, either. The strangest part about it was the fact that he didn't feel like the outsider looking in like he usually felt in a group of people. They were engaging in conversation with him, laughing at his sarcastic jokes, and teasing him goodnaturedly, seeming to have forgotten his earlier outburst concerning his birthday. He wondered why he'd never noticed this kind of camaraderie among colleagues and friends at PPTH. He knew that he'd been a bastard to just about everybody there, particularly during the years he'd been abusing Vicodin and alcohol, but putting him aside for a moment, he couldn't remember seeing such interactions between the other doctors and staff there either. He wondered why that was, exactly.

Now that everyone who was expected to arrive had they began to divvy up jobs and their order of what to be moved to the truck first. House was subletting the apartment as semi-furnished since he didn't want to have to be bothered with finding a storage facility for the furniture he didn't need at the new place. By this point in time Hutton had shown him photographs of the interior and exterior of the rental house and what furniture was there on her iPhone. Most of it was better than what he'd bothered obtaining for himself over the years, but he did plan on moving his king-sized bed and matching bureau and night stands, bookcases, the cabinets where he stored his vinyl album collection and, of course, his beloved baby grand piano. Other than for those, everything else was small or in boxes. It was agreed to load the boxes first followed by the smaller items and then the large furniture last so that when they arrived at his new place they could set up the furniture right away and then unload the boxes which could be unpacked whenever.

They set to work, Stephania and Bonnar moving boxes after House labeled them as to which room they belonged in. Hutton continued to finish packing boxes, Chase and Anderson disassembled House's bed and Bryce and Gary set up the temporary ramp over the stairs leading out of the building. They then loaded up the dollies with boxes and moved those out to the truck as well. Bonnar could be heard occasionally telling everyone where on the truck to place certain boxes and which ones could be safely stacked and which couldn't. Once all of the boxes going on the truck were on, they began to move smaller items and furniture. House's guitars and albums were going in the back of Gary's four by four where they were less likely to shift and become damaged. At some point during that House pulled Stephania aside to speak with her.

"I'm going to go pick up some food and drinks. If it's alright with your mother, you want to ride along on my motorcycle?" he said to her. Her eyes lit up as he expected they would.

"Sure, why not?" she responded eagerly. "Is it a cruiser or a crotch-rocket?"

House smirked. "Crotch-rocket," he told her much to her approval. "Give me a couple of minutes to okay this with your mom."

She nodded, all smiles. He wasn't certain why he was doing this but she appeared to be a good kid and what teenager didn't want to ride on a motorcycle? Besides, she could help him pick out what she figured the others would like to eat. Hutton was resting on the leather sofa. She still looked pale and weary. He approached her and sat down next to her, grunting at the spasm in his thigh as he did. He could feel his incisions as well.

"We can move the sofa into the bedroom for now so you can lie down and rest," he told her.

"I just might take you up on that," she answered with a weak smile. "I wish I could help out more."

"You've already done more than you should," he told her. "I wanted to get your permission for something."

Hutton raised her eyebrow in curiosity. "For what do you need _my_ permission?"

"Well, actually Stephania needs the permission," he corrected. "I'm making a run to the store to pick up some eats and drinks. If it's alright with you I offered her a ride on my bike if she came along to help me. I told her it depended upon your answer. I'll take it easy and she'll be wearing a helmet."

Biting her lip a little nervously, the psychiatrist hesitated. She looked in Stephania's direction where her daughter was giving her a hopeful smile and the '_please_, mommy?' look. House was mildly impressed with the teen's manipulative skills.

"You have a lot of experience riding a motorcycle?" Hutton asked him cautiously.

"Yes, I do. It's up to you."

Stephania was still plying her with _the look_. Hutton sighed and smiled crookedly. "Alright," she agreed. "I guess it's okay—but are you sure your leg is up to it?"

"Riding a bike is a little different from running a marathon," he told her, amused. "I think I can handle it."

Hutton nodded uncertainly. House got up and told Gary to grab someone and move the sofa into the now empty bedroom for Hutton. He readily agreed, calling Chase over to give him a hand.

Looking at Stephania, House gave her a thumbs-up. She practically squealed with excitement and ran to her mother to give her a kiss in thanks then followed House like an excited puppy. He grabbed his jacket, backpack, helmet, and keys and they left.

When they reached his bike Stephania grinned and caressed the seat. "This is cool," she commented. "I can't believe mom actually agreed to this. She's always worried that David and I are going to get hurt."

House pulled his ibuprofen bottle out of his pocket and dumped three into his hand. "She cares about you," he told her. "Some parents don't give a shit about their kids." He threw the pills into his mouth and swallowed, then pocketed the bottle again. He gave her the helmet and backpack. "Put this on and tighten the strap until it's snug but not cutting into your skin. When we're on the road the visor stays _down_. I don't need to be picking a bug out of your eye. You hold on to me with both hands at all times, no exceptions. If I tell you to do something, you do it, no questions. Got it?"

"Got it," she confirmed as she pulled the helmet on and worked on the strap. House checked it to make certain that it was done up correctly and closed the visor. She put on the backpack as well. House climbed on first and then had her climb on behind him.

"Where do I hang on?" Stephania asked, very lightly covering his eyes with her hands. "Here?"

"Only if you want to die young," he responded, taking her hands gently and removing them from his eyes. She giggled. He wrapped her arms around his waist instead. "Hold on tight."

House started the bike and then pulled out into traffic.

"Can you hear me?" he shouted.

"Yup, barely," she replied.

"Basically, mimic my body language," he instructed. "If I lean left, you lean left the same amount. If I lean right, so do you."

"Okay!" she shouted back. "Can't we go faster?"

"We can," he told her, "but we won't."

The grocery store was about ten minutes from the apartment. They arrived there and House parked the bike. Stephania climbed down, taking off the helmet. Her hair was mussed up but she didn't seem to care. There was a grin on her face.

"That was so cool!" she told him as House climbed off the bike.

House smirked to keep himself from smiling at her enthusiasm. It _was _cool. That's why he liked it so much himself. "Bring the helmet in with you," he told her. He then pulled out his cellphone and quick-dialed his usual pizza place, ordering some pizzas to be delivered to his apartment for approximately the time he and Stephania would be back.

Inside the store he allowed the teen to decide on what to get. Apparently riding on a motorcycle was like lubricant for a fifteen year old girl's mouth because she talked his ear off the entire time. The weird thing was it didn't annoy him nearly as much as he expected. She was smart and articulate and he didn't find himself bored.

"I've signed up for a special science camp at the university this summer. The final day is a science fair where we present projects in any area of science and we're judged on them. I'm thinking I'll create a model of the human brain and display what is believed to happen physiologically in the brains of individuals with clinical depression," Stephania told him as she picked out some small containers of precut and washed vegetables including carrot sticks, celery sticks, cherry tomatoes and broccoli and threw them into the basket the diagnostician carried. "I'll have a display of the history of past beliefs about depression by the medical community to the present, methods of treatment used today and prospective future treatments based on new technology and pharmaceuticals currently in the R and D and clinical trial phases.

"Mom said she can borrow an old electric shock machine from the nineteen fifties for me, kinda like the one they used on Russell Crowe's character in _A Beautiful Mind._I can't believe they still do shock treatments today, except now Mom says it's called Electroconvulsive Therapy and it's less brutal now. They put the patient under anesthesia for the few minutes they actual perform the procedure. Mom doesn't think ECT is effective enough to outweigh the negative side-effects. What do you think?"

"About what," he asked, "your science fair project or ECT?"

Shrugging, the girl and diagnostician entered the condiment aisle where she picked up a small bottle of low-fat ranch salad dressing and dropped it into the basket. "Both," she answered.

"Your mom would be the expert on ECT but from what I've read I agree with her," House told her. "Your project idea is…interesting. It's not exceptional but you should get a good mark."

Frowning, Stephania inquired, "What would you consider _exceptional_?"

"Anything that doesn't involve psychiatry," he told her bluntly. "Okay, enough rabbit food. We need some junk food, too."

The teen smiled, "Let's hit the bakery."

They picked up containers of freshly baked chocolate chip and oatmeal and raisin cookies. Stephania suggested they purchase some envelopes of iced tea powder, paper cups, paper plates, and plastic cutlery because it was lighter than trying to carry cans of soda on the bike. They stood in line to pay.

"Seriously," the teen said to House, "what would be better than what I have in mind for my project?"

"Something a little more exciting than depression," he told her. "Is your heart set on medicine?"

"I'd _like_ to do something in medicine," she replied.

He nodded, formulating an idea in his head. "It needs to be something more interactive. When do you need to have your project ready for?"

"The fair is at the end of July, the twenty-ninth, but I think but adjudication begins the day before so it has to be completed by then. Why?"

"Give me a couple of days and I'll come up with two or three project ideas for you. You can take them or leave them, it's up to you," he told her as they reached the check out and House set their items down on the conveyor belt.

"You'd do that?" she asked incredulously.

"I could have sworn I just said I would," he retorted sarcastically. "I'm going to die of boredom until I'm okayed to start working, so what the hell? It could provide me with a distraction."

Stephania smiled broadly. "Mom said you're a genius. This is great! Thanks!"

"I'm not doing your project for you," House warned her sternly. "No free rides in the real world. I'll give you some ideas and coach you but the work is yours to do."

"Not a problem—Mom said the exact same thing," she assured him as their items were scanned through and he paid, managing to fit it all in the backpack. He slung it over her shoulders and then they headed for his bike. House took a slightly more scenic route on the way back just for the hell of it.

The pizzas arrived at the perfect time, just after House and Stephania arrived back at the apartment. Nearly everything was loaded onto the truck. The teen went to the bedroom to wake her mother to come eat. They all had lunch and while they ate House thought again about how these people had taken time off of work or out of their free time to give a hand to someone they barely knew. He honestly hadn't known there were actually people like that left in the world.

While they were eating the piano movers arrived with their truck and equipment. House kept a close eye on how they were handling the instrument but they did a good job of it and he was satisfied.

After lunch was eaten and cleared away a last sweep of the apartment was made, turning up no unpacked items. The diagnostician had hired a cleaning crew to come by on Monday and had notified the building caretaker so he would be prepared to let them in to the apartment to do their job.

Everybody cleared out of the apartment but for House and Hutton. It was quiet for the first time in hours as they stood just inside the doorway and looked around at the apartment that had been stripped bare except for the furniture pieces that were being left behind. House pictured himself and Wilson sitting on the sofa, their legs up on the coffee table with a bottle of beer in their hands watching an old movie the younger man had conned House into watching. He looked at the spot on the floor where he'd collapsed and laid in a pool of his own vomit one Christmas Eve after overdosing on stolen oxycodone and booze. He saw Wilson enter the apartment and spot House on the floor, running to his side. He also saw him pick up the pill bottle, stare at it then get up and leave again without offering any aid to his older friend.

He didn't feel any sentimentality after that.

"You okay?" the psychiatrist asked him softly, breaking the silence.

House looked down at her and nodded.

"Yeah," he murmured. "Let's go."

**End of Part Two**


	35. Chapter 35 Part 3 Ch 1

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **6543

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter One: Friday, June 11, 2010; 6:38 P.M.**

…_**And it's as if new eyes have found me 'cause things**_

_**Look different**_

_**Than before.**_

_**I've never felt light and so free and so willing to go**_

_**On no matter what I come across.**_

'_**Cause I will not stop pushing 'til I have recovered**_

_**What was lost…**_

_**Funny how things you need will find you,**_

_**The things you want will leave you wanting some more.**_

_**Everything that comes along reminds you**_

_**You can either rise up above or you can hit the floor.**_

_**I feel like I could fly, feel like I could rise up**_

_**There to where you're calling me.**_

_**No more asking why, no more foolish lies,**_

'_**Cause I have finished falling."**_

_-"Last Fall" by Vanessa Carlton_

Dr. Gregory House lounged in the spacious claw-foot bathtub in the bathroom of the house that would be the place he would live for now. He wasn't prepared to call the house his home yet. A home was more than four walls and a roof to keep you dry. It involved roots, security, and a sense of belonging. Perhaps he would be able to call this place his home eventually, but not yet. He had been too quick to call Wilson's loft home which had only made it harder when Wilson had asked him to leave. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

Everything had been moved into the guest/rental house by four o'clock. The bookshelves and other pieces of furniture House had brought with him were put where he wanted them by his helpers, the furniture in the master bedroom moved to the basement and his furniture moved in and set up. The baby grand had been placed strategically by the large window in the living room so when someone entered the abode it was the first thing to be seen. He was very impressed with what he saw and the place was in near perfect condition. Everything he needed was on the one floor so he didn't have to worry about climbing stairs with his bad leg. Labeled boxes were put into the rooms where they belonged. Bonnar and Stephania had offered to stay and help him unpack some of the boxes but he had sent them on their way along with everyone else. He needed some time to just be by himself and collect his thoughts and feelings.

By the time it was over House was exhausted and his leg was throbbing. He'd decided to soak in a bath of water that was the hottest that he could tolerate after hunting for and finding his bath supplies, toiletries, and some towels. The hot water helped relax his cramping thigh muscles which in turn helped ease some of the pain. It was not nearly as effective as Vicodin but it helped.

House took the time in the tub to think about what happened next for him. He was trying to take things one day at a time, making short and mid-term plans for himself but leaving the distant future alone. It was too easy to feel overwhelmed or anxious when focusing too far ahead. His life had changed so radically in the past month and it was all he could do to adjust to each day on its own. The most immediate thing he had to look forward to, if that was the right way of putting it, was his date with Justin Clee that evening.

He was uneasy about going out with the vascular surgeon so soon after being rejected by Wilson. He didn't know if he was ready to start thinking about a relationship with someone else. However he knew that there were no guarantees that things would work out between him and Wilson anymore. The oncologist had told him that he wanted nothing to do with him. That was painful, but he was tired of moping over Wilson. It was a fact and he had to accept it and move on. He had never thought he'd be able to carry on without Wilson, yet here he was, coping.

House forced himself to push all thoughts of Wilson aside for the time being; thinking about him only hurt and since there was nothing he could do about it, he didn't want to waste time and energy hurting. Instead he thought about his date. Clee was an incredibly attractive man. He wasn't pretty boy attractive like Chase; there was something more rugged about him. He was tall and slender, like House, but well proportioned with an air of self-confidence House found himself drawn to. The fact that he filled out a pair of trousers _very_ well was simply a bonus. Clee's appearance of being comfortable in his own skin and honesty both to himself and others was, quite frankly, sexy.

Wilson pretended to be at ease with himself, but House knew differently. Denial was the oncologist's middle name and he lived his life behind masks.

He smiled to himself. Perhaps this evening would be better than he'd been anticipating—that is, if his goddamned leg would behave itself.

Before the water began to cool and his muscles cramped up again House rose carefully using the safety bar that had been installed originally for Hutton's in-laws. He was glad he wouldn't have to worry about doing that for himself. His leg actually felt quite a bit better and he felt more energized than before. He climbed out of the tub, toweled off and then went into the Master bedroom. He had packed his clothes in suitcases so it was easy for him to locate something to wear.

It had been quite some time since his last date, unless the time he'd taken Nora to a restaurant as part of his plan to sabotage Wilson's attempts to date her counted. He had no idea what to wear. As soon as that thought came to him House cringed at how incredibly gay it sounded. _Well, you are half-gay, _he reminded himself. He chose a deep cerulean blue, long-sleeved, silk button up shirt (both Stacy and Wilson had told him he looked especially good in blue) and a pair of deep grey trousers. He even dug out his pristine but dusty black leather dress shoes from another box; he wore them so infrequently that they were nearly in the same condition as they were the day he bought them—about a decade ago. House had no idea what kind of place Clee was taking him to so he wanted to be certain that he didn't stand out like a sore thumb, neither too casual nor too formal. House left the top two buttons of the shirt undone, mostly because he hated having anything tight around his neck. The fact that it actually made him look more relaxed and sexy didn't hurt either. To finish the outfit he put on a gray sports jacket. Once dressed, he returned to the ensuite bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He had to admit that blue was a good color on him. He debated—should he shave or not? He preferred himself with a three day growth of beard and Wilson had liked the look on him. Personally, House thought he looked like an idiot clean-shaven. He decided to trim his five day growth back to a three day one. Satisfied he threw on some aftershave, combed his fingers through his hair (at least it was long enough now that he could), and then took one last look. It would have to do. He located one of his bottles of ibuprofen and took three.

The doorbell rang and House checked his watch. It was still too early to be Clee unless the man was even more anal about being early than Wilson was.

_Enough with Wilson,_ House told himself sternly, rolling his eyes; he grabbed his cane and limped to the front door. Standing at the threshold was Hutton. She carried a small casserole dish.

"I figured you didn't have time to go grocery shopping so I figured you might like to some of this casserole Linda made. It's really good…" she told him, her voice trailing off. Her eyes widened when she saw him and she let out a low whistle of appreciation. "You look…wow! If Justin isn't struck speechless when he sees you then he needs to have his eyes examined."

House shifted his weight onto his left foot, feeling self-conscious. He never really knew how to respond to compliments. He stepped aside so she could come in. Hutton took the casserole to the kitchen and set it onto the counter.

"Thanks," he told her.

Hutton seemed to sense his nervousness. "House, I'm really pleased that you're taking care of yourself this way. We all need interaction with others and sexuality is an integral part of who we are as human beings. My only advice is to take it slow, listen to what your gut is telling you. Well, I better get out of here so you can finish getting ready." House walked her to the door.

"Get to bed early tonight," House told her. "You overtaxed yourself earlier."

Hutton opened the door and then paused and smiled. She winked. "Good luck and don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"If I recall correctly from a conversation we had in the past," House replied, smirking, "there's not much you wouldn't do."

"Watch it, buster," she warned him, feigning indignation and then left. House closed the door behind her.

He put the casserole into the refrigerator, having no appetite to speak of. Instead he went to his piano and allowed his fingers to play along the keys without any real piece in mind; he simply let his hands create music on the fly. It was a little out of tune due to the move but not as badly as House had expected. He lost himself in it until the doorbell rang again. With a sigh House got up and answered it.

Clee stood there with a warm smile. He wore a rich brown shirt that brought out the golden flecks in his dark blue eyes, an expensive quarter-inch thick men's gold chain, and tan pants with expensive Italian leather loafers to finish. His cologne was subtle but sensuous and he oozed sexuality from every pore; House couldn't help but be a little aroused by him.

Apparently Clee liked what he saw in front of him, too. House watched the man's pupils dilate and his Adam's apple bob in his throat as he made no secret about checking him out. A smile crossed his lips. "Hi, House," the surgeon said smoothly. "You look _incredible_. It's hard to believe looking at you that you just moved into your place today."

"I had a lot of help," House responded with a nod. "With the move, that is."

"Wow," Clee said as his hungry eyes scanned House again. "Well, ready to go?"

House reached for his jacket and keys, peripherally noticing the other man checking out his ass when he didn't think House was looking. He felt a little self-conscious at the attention he was receiving; it appeared, however, that he'd passed inspection. He told himself he was _not_ going to blush. Instead he focused on how sexy it made him feel.

They walked to Clee's car sitting in the driveway. It was a brilliant red Lexus convertible with the top down. He wasn't impressed with expensive trappings, but the diagnostician did appreciate fine cars.

"You look really great tonight, by the way," Clee told him again as they climbed into his car. House ran his hand along the creamy leather upholstery.

"You look great, too," House replied, feeling awkward again. He wasn't very good at giving compliments and even worse at receiving them. The fact was, he was turned on just looking at Clee but the first words to come to his mind were a little too racy to say at that point. Then again, when had that ever stopped him before?

The car roared to life and then purred like a kitten. "Would you prefer the top up?" the surgeon asked.

"Not a chance," House told him with a smile. Receiving a grin and a wink in return helped him relax a little. He needed to chill out and allow himself to enjoy the evening.

Clee put the car in gear and backed out of the driveway. As they passed Hutton's home he could see two dark back-lit forms standing at the window, thinking they were hidden by the blinds they peaked through. House rolled his eyes at that. It wasn't like he was a junior high kid going on his first date, for Pete's sake.

"So, did everything go okay with the move?" Clee asked him, glancing over at House from time to time as he drove. The older man wondered if the younger wasn't just a little nervous himself.

"Yeah," House told him. "No major injuries and nothing broken."

"How long did you live in Princeton?"

"Over ten years, but not always at the same place. I got my apartment shortly after my infarction. Previously I had been living in a house with my girlfriend but when that ended I moved to the apartment. Easier to navigate and I didn't need all the extra space."

"I hope you don't mind if I ask this," Clee told him before he asked, "but did she leave _because_ of the infarction?"

Shaking his head, House answered, "No. She left because of the man I changed into _after_ the infarction. I became very angry and embittered, particularly towards her."

"Why so?"

House briefly related what had happened with the infarction; how muscle tissue in his thigh had died as a result of the clot and how the toxins formed by the necrosis threatened his life. To prevent the excruciating pain from continuing to weaken him he'd agreed to a chemically-induced coma after making it clear to Stacy that he would never agree to an amputation and wanted to wait to see if a bypass would work however risky to his life that was; while in the coma his girlfriend and doctor had conspired to a compromise, surgically debriding the dead muscle tissue and leaving him permanently disabled and in chronic pain.

"You couldn't forgive her?" Clee asked, fascinated with the story.

"I could forgive her for wanting to preserve my life," House answered. "I couldn't forgive her for waiting until I was incapable of saying no and then going against my express wishes. I didn't feel like I could trust her anymore, so I acted like a bastard to her and one day she decided that she couldn't take it anymore."

"Hmm," the other man responded, "sounds to me that you had a right to be embittered. Okay, no more depressing talk! I should tell you that I'm really glad you agreed to tonight. It's been a while since I've dated and I'm a little out of practice. I talk big in front of people but I am by no means a playboy. I hope that doesn't disappoint you."

House smirked in self-conscious amusement. "That makes two of us. Aside from a prank on my best friend the last date I was on was seven years ago. One of my fellows was infatuated with me and quit, refusing to come back to work unless I went on a date with her."

"Seriously?" Clee reacted, laughing lightly. "Well I can understand the infatuation but surely there are better ways to get a date!"

"It turned out to be a disaster," House told him, smiling ruefully.

"You actually _went_?"

House shrugged, knowing just how ridiculous the situation sounded when you weren't the one who had lived it. "Yeah. I figured it was an easy enough way to get her to return to work and if I got lucky it would be a bonus."

Clee laughed a little more and it was infectious. Despite himself House chuckled a little, too.

"Seven years is a long dry spell," the surgeon told him.

"I was too busy killing myself with booze and Vicodin for most of it," House explained. "Besides, the last three years of that I spent pining for my best friend."

"So were you two…?" Clee asked cautiously.

"No," House answered quickly, "not that I didn't want that. But he was in deep denial for a long time and then when he started to clue in, well…it didn't work out. So I'm on the market."

"Which is really lucky for me," Clee told him with a grin. House felt himself flush slightly, which annoyed the hell out of him. "Are you blushing?"

"No," House answered quickly. "I don't blush."

"Surely you're used to being complimented and told how attractive you are?" the surgeon told him, raising an eyebrow.

"It doesn't usually come up," House admitted. Part of him wished for a change of subject but another part liked it. He knew that he wasn't unattractive in his own way but he wasn't used to other people telling him that.

"Well, I'm sorry if I'm embarrassing you, House," Clee told him, "but it's true and it's a shame you don't realize it. I'm not just saying this so I can get in your pants, either. Don't get me wrong, I'm not adverse to that, but that's not the _only_ reason I'm telling you that."

Snickering, House looked at the driver. "If you drop the compliments your chances will increase considerably."

"Promises, promises," Clee responded humorously, but his eyes surrepticiously checked him out again with desire.

They arrived at an upper-end Philadelphia nightclub. Clee pulled up to the curb in front of the entrance and handed his car over to a valet as House got out. He rounded the car to meet up with House and then placed his hand lightly on House's elbow as they approached the doorman/bouncer who was clad in white shirt, black suit and tie. He was burly enough to look out of place in anything outside of a football uniform.

"Clee, Justin and guest," the surgeon told the bouncer who checked his PDA and then nodded, lowering the red velvet rope to allow them in. House raised an eyebrow at the exclusivity of the place but once he was inside he began to understand why.

The club was not your typical drink, snort, party, dance till you drop and screw your partner in the bathroom type of place. It was elegantly decorated like a late fifties cabaret club with a stage and a full jazz band, mahogany hardwood dance floor near the stage and tables set to the nines with expensive bone china, sterling silver flat wear, and crystal glasses. Elegant candles were centered on every table. The floor was tiered and along the periphery of each tier were concave booths of cream-colored leather that faced the stage. Along the far wall was the longest and best stocked bar House had seen in years. Servers in crisp black and white uniforms reminiscent of a more elegant age brought food and drinks to the tables with smooth deportment. House wouldn't have been surprised to see Dean Martin walk out on stage and begin crooning 'The Way You Look Tonight' at any moment.

To say that the diagnostician was impressed would have been an understatement.

Just inside the entrance was the maitre'd. Clee confirmed with him their reservation and then was led by one of several hosts to their table: a booth on the lower tier of the room with a perfect view of the stage. House sat down just to the right of center of the table and Clee sat in the same place on the left so that there was no more than a foot between them. House held back a smile. The other man smelled so _incredibly_ good and House realized just how easily he turned him on. He felt a pang of guilt but forced it away. He was finished with waiting and pining.

The host took a drink order. Clee ordered a dry gin martini and House, silently cursing his early release contract, ordered club soda with lime. Nodding the host left the table.

"You don't drink?" the surgeon asked him, raising an eyebrow.

House shook his head and smirked, "I'm on the wagon whether I want to be or not."

"Will my drinking be a problem for you?"

"No," House assured him plainly. "I was never an alcoholic but I did drink heavily. I'm under contract to remain dry but I have no problem with you indulging."

The surgeon shifted slightly in his seat so he could face House a little more, his knees brushing against the older man's. House's first impulse was to back away but he fought it. Not all touch carried the danger of disappointment or pain, he told himself. Resting one elbow on the table, Clee rested his head lightly on his hand and captured House's gaze.

"I hope you like this place," he said to House. "It's one of my favorite places that's actually gay-friendly without being strictly gay. No bashing or harassment allowed here or you're out on your ear. It's unfortunate we still have to experience that kind of thing this day and age."

"As long as there are people there will be hate," House told him seriously.

"I hope you're wrong about that," Clee told him with a grin. "It's not the most encouraging thought. So tell me about Greg House. I already know about some of the challenges you've battled and won but who you are as a man."

"I'm afraid I'd bore you." House told him. He felt himself being drawn into his date's eyes.

"I seriously doubt that," the younger man told him. "For instance, what kind of hobbies do you pursue when you're not solving the most confounding medical mysteries on earth?"

House smirked in amusement and quipped, "I get together with the girls and scrapbook."

Clee chuckled, "Sounds like fun."

"Oh, it is," House told him with mock enthusiasm. "There are so many things you can do with scissors, paper, glue and some sparkles. What do _you_ do for chuckles?" House batted his eyebrows. His date burst out laughing. The host returned with their drinks and told them their server would be right with them.

"I restore old cars, for one thing," the surgeon replied as his laughter waned. "I jog, I get together with friends occasionally and jam some old time rock and roll."

House's interest was caught. "What do you play?"

"The drums," he replied. "Sometimes base guitar if the regular guy doesn't show up—he's a cardiac surgeon who seems to always be on call."

"Ah," House nodded. "How good are you?"

Shrugging Clee answered, "I can hold my own. Are you a musician, House? I heard the piano when I got to your door earlier—was that you?"

A shy nod was the older man's answer.

"You sounded very good," Clee told him sincerely. "How long have you been playing?"

"Proficiently?" House asked, thinking about it for a moment. "Since I was ten. I showed an interest at three and my mother started teaching me when I was four. She continued to teach me until I surpassed her and from that point on I ended up teaching myself. My father was a marine pilot and we moved every couple of years, sometimes more often. Cheap way to see the world but lousy if you're the type who wants to put down roots. No matter where my dad was stationed my mother always had a piano—she rarely complained about moving all the time so long as she had one."

"Wow, so you were a wunderkind _and_ a military brat," Clee commented, appearing impressed. "Do you play anything else?"

"The guitar, acoustic and electric," was the answer. House was finally relaxing; they were on a topic that interested him and he felt comfortable with; it was good to be able to talk with someone else who had an appreciation for music. They went on to discuss their taste in music; Clee enjoyed the romantics, classical, and hardcore rock. House was much more contemporary with jazz, the blues and classic rock. Their server came to take their orders and then left. They talked about cars, motorcycles and one of House's favorite topics—monster trucks.

"I've seen them on TV from time, and I liked watching them," the vascular surgeon told him and then paused when their food arrived. Once their server was gone he continued, "but I really don't know much about them. You seem to be very passionate about them, though."

"You need an education," House told him enthusiastically.

"Is that an offer to teach me?" Clee asked, raising a suggestive eyebrow. House caught the flirtation and that renewed an interest in him of a different kind.

"I could teach you a lot of things," the diagnostician told him with a knowing smile, watching Clee's reaction to the double-entendre.

"I think I'd like that," the younger man responded softly, meeting House's gaze with smoldering eyes that left no question about what they were really talking about. House felt himself respond and had to focus on controlling that particular physical reaction in public.

They continued to talk over dinner, sometimes animatedly. After the dessert course and coffee the lighting in the club lowered a little and musicians took their places on stage as the MC, a portly gentleman began to introduce the band and then the singer. A tall, sexy blonde in a body hugging red sequined dress that reminded House of the dress Cameron had worn to the Casino fundraiser stepped onto the stage and up to the microphone. The band started up playing a familiar tune and then she began to channel cabaret singers of the past. Her voice was smooth, velvety, and true. House couldn't help the little smile he wore as he listened and a glance over at Clee caught the other man watching the diagnostician with rapt attention. House felt a little heady from all of the interest he'd received that evening.

Men and women began to trickle onto the dance floor, most pairings being heterosexual but a fair number were same-sex. That was another thing House missed doing because of the infarction. He used to be a very good dancer; he and Stacy frequently went dancing when they were together. Now all he could do on a dance floor was shuffle slightly from foot to foot. Sure, there was still the aspect of holding someone and swaying to the music that was very enjoyable but it still wasn't the same. He wondered if Clee wanted to dance but was politely saying nothing in deference to House's leg which, surprisingly, was only hovering around a two or three in pain.

House would be damned if he was going to allow his damned leg spoil someone else's good time. He crawled out of the seat, ignoring the curious expression on Clee's face and went to stand next to his side of the booth.

"Care to dance?" he asked his voice deep and gravelly, extending a hand.

"What about your leg? Clee asked him even as he slid across the seat to get out of the booth.

"One slow dance, then I'll behave," House assured him. "Besides, I'll hardly be sweeping you off your feet. It'll be more like 'shuffle-shuffle-sway."

The surgeon smiled and they walked down the slightly sloped aisle together to the dance floor in front of the stage. The singer began singing a song and sounded all for the world like Julie London.

Since House made the request, he led, such as it was. He hung his cane on his arm and took Clee's left hand with his right and wrapped an arm around his waist resting his hand in the small of his back and pulling him in fairly closely. Clee simply wrapped his free arm around House and they began to sway to the music. They were almost equal in height and their eyes met and locked onto each other.

"_Now you say you're lonely; you cry the whole night through," the blonde entertainer sung. "Well, you can cry me a river, cry me a river. I cried a river over you…"_

Clee looked at him with curiosity bordering on suspicion, a small smirk on his face. "How did you know I wanted to dance?"

House shrugged. "The way you were watching other people dance," he answered softly. "Besides, I knew _I_ wanted to."

"You're very observant," Clee told him, looking pleased.

"Occupational hazard," the diagnostician answered with a small smile. They were silent for a while as they danced.

"…_You drove me, nearly drove me out of my head while you never shed a tear," _the singer crooned,_ "Remember, I remember all that you said, told me love was too plebian. Told me you were through with me and now you say you love me. Well, just to prove you do…"_

House pulled Clee just a little closer, reveling in the smell of his hair and the occasional brush of their bodies. House liked him, and not just sexually. He could see himself in time becoming quite fond of the man. He wouldn't allow himself to think about anything beyond that. It was possible Clee wasn't enjoying himself and wouldn't want a second date, although if the way the surgeon was holding him just as close, moving his body in perfect synchronicity with House's was any indication, that was unlikely.

"…_Come on and cry me a river, cry me a river. I cried a river over you. I cried a river over you. I cried a river over you. I cried a river…over…you…"_

The song came to an end and a fox trot soon followed. Clee smiled softly at him. "Thanks for the dance."

"Thank _you_," House replied quietly. He had a sudden urge to pull the younger man close and kiss him but waited it out, being cautious not to push too quickly and act impulsively. Clee kept hold of House's hand as they returned to their table; the diagnostician was good with that. They continued to sit at the table and talk for another two hours as other guests began to leave and for House it seemed impossible that it was that late already. Time had flown.

"I guess it's time to leave before they take the broom to us," Clee said humorously.

"Just so long as they don't send that bouncer after us," House commented with a smirk. "He looks like he's been trained in the fine art of breaking long bones."

Clee refused to allow House to pay. "When you take me to a monster truck show I'll let you pay," he told him. That was as good as a confirmation that he'd had a good time as well and was definitely interested in seeing House again; he was good with that, too.

When they stepped out into the warm June evening they waited for the valet to bring Clee's car around. House reached beside him to grasp the other man's cool hand lightly, weaving his long pianist's fingers with the surgeon's. Maybe it was because he was horny (was nearly always horny for that matter) or maybe it was because he was genuinely fascinated by the man and craved the companionship, but he simply wanted to be in some kind of physical contact with him. When Clee squeezed his hand gently and maintained the contact without hesitation, House smiled imperceptibly.

During the drive back to House's place the diagnostician's leg began to ache more than it had been earlier and unconsciously he began to rub the damaged thigh muscle slowly. He took the ibuprofen bottle out of his jacket pocket and poured another three into his hand and took them. He returned the bottle to his pocket.

"More pain?" the surgeon asked.

"A little," House admitted. "It's not bad yet, and I'm trying to prevent it from getting there."

"Have you thought about seeing my friend about that?"

Indeed, he had, particularly earlier in the day as his furniture and boxes were being moved into the new house and he was holding doors and lumbering about. He hadn't stopped to actually make the call. For some reason he was reluctant to do so. Perhaps he was afraid that his suspicions were correct, that there was nothing anyone could do to help with his pain. Even if he chose to take the extreme measures of amputation or intentional nerve paralysis there was still the problem of phantom pain, which was a very real possibility after years of poorly controlled chronic pain.

"Yes," House answered honestly. "I plan on contacting her on Monday."

Clee nodded and then smiled knowingly, "I hear a 'but' in your voice."

House nodded, thinking that Clee was quite perceptive himself. "I've tried a lot of things in the past. I'm doubtful that anything will be effective without the involvement of narcotics."

Nodding, Clee told him, "I don't know how long ago that was but I do know there are new methods all the time."

"I've read the journals." the older man told him. "I'm willing to look at what my options are, but that's about all I'm willing to commit to right now."

"Fair enough," the other man agreed with a nod.

When they arrived back at House's Clee parked the car on the garage pad and turned the engine off. He got out of the convertible when House did and walked with him to the door. House unlocked the door and then turned to look at his date. The younger man was looking at him with soft but desirous eyes and smiling slightly. The heat there only fueled House's arousal.

"I enjoyed tonight," he told House earnestly. "I'd really like to see you again."

"Me, too," House replied, smiling seductively. He felt like the girl here and that just wasn't his style. It was time to show a little assertiveness. He reached out and took Clee's hand and pulled him closer. He was being studied carefully by the surgeon, whose smile widened slightly. House felt himself hardening and he shut down the part of his brain telling him this was too fast and what about Wilson…?

_What about him?_ House told that voice silently. Wilson had made it clear he no longer wanted the diagnostician. _To hell with him. _Enough was enough.

House leaned in toward Clee, watching carefully for any indication of resistance. All he saw was the younger man's pupils dilate to the point where his blue irises were barely perceivable rings around the black and he leaned in slightly him as well. House hung his cane on his arm and closed the distance between their mouths, pausing just before their lips touched. He could hear Clee's breath catch and then breathe again more rapidly.

"Too fast?" House asked his date in a murmur.

"Uh uh," was the breathless answer. "I'll let you know when to stop."

House pressed his lips against the other man's gently for just a moment before pulling away slightly, searching Clee's face again. The surgeon frowned slightly at the withdrawal and brought his hand to rest on the back of the older man's neck and pulled him back into a deeper, more passionate kiss. Smiling against the other man's mouth House laced his arms around Clee and pulled him closer. He pressed with his tongue Clee gave him access to his mouth. He ran his tongue along the other man's, enjoying how he tasted—like vermouth, coffee, chocolate and his own distinct flavor. He mapped out his mouth thoroughly as he felt Clee's free arm slip around him and pull him even closer. House felt the other tongue battling his for dominance now, pushing to get into the older man's mouth. After putting up a bit of a fight House conceded and allowed Clee to search the inside of the cheeks, the ridges on the top, his gums and teeth.

One of them moaned softly and House wasn't certain which one of them it was but it didn't matter. House's need was growing stronger and his mind was ceding control to his erection. He pulled away to breathe and while they both panted softly Clee pressed up against him, making it perfectly clear that House wasn't the only one who wanted—needed—this to go further. The younger man's hardened cock briefly brushed against House's and the latter's breath hitched with the jolt of pleasure.

House reached behind him and turned the door knob. He pushed the door open and pulled the younger man inside with him. Clee grinned, following without resistance.

"Are…you trying to…seduce me, House?" he asked between pants for breath.

House allowed one of his hands to slide down to brush his date's ass through his pants. "If you have to ask…I must be doing…it wrong," he growled, attacking the other man's mouth ravenously.

Once they were through the threshold, House pushed the door closed with his foot.

**A/N 2: I know some of you are angry about this chapter and some of you are happy about it. Both are good—it means you're engaged in the story. Just don't flame me. I ignore flame mail.**

**Also, I have no idea what the living arrangement was with House and Stacy before they broke up but in one scene during that story arc House is up in her attic trying to catch Steve McQueen for Stacy and from their conversation I got the impression they may have lived in a house. If I'm wrong, it's not a big deal.**


	36. Chapter 36 Part 3 Ch 2

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Two: Saturday, June 12, 2010; 12:12 A.M.**

One night stands were rarely allowed to spend the entire night after the sex was done but House didn't consider Justin Clee a one night stand. Something had just clicked between them and he wanted to pursue more of this than just sex. He knew he had to careful and honest with both himself and the vascular surgeon and take it slow, if such a thing could be said after a night of incredible sex on the first date. House knew he could easily get caught in the rebound trap and that wouldn't be fair to either of them. But there was real potential here and he believed Clee thought similarly, especially after what he'd told the diagnostician in the middle of the night.

They'd both just come and were lying next to each other recovering from what House could only describe as mind-blowing orgasms, at least on his part, that is. From Clee's reaction House was pretty certain it was mutual. Both condoms had been removed and disposed of and House, once he could think clearly enough to do so, had found a couple of washcloths so they could clean up a little before House crawled back into the bed and pulled a comforter over them.

"Oh my _God_!" Clee had murmured when he'd found his voice again.

"No, I'm House," the older man had retorted, smirking. "Though you're not the first to make that mistake."

Clee had chuckled at that and then raised himself up on one elbow to look down at House. The older man noticed how soft his eyes were; it was more than post-coital bliss. They looked genuinely affectionate.

"I hadn't expected this evening to end up quite like this," the surgeon had told him. "But I'm glad it did. You're an extraordinary person, House."

House had smiled ever so slightly at that. "Yeah, but you're one who jammed with Stevie Ray Vaughn. I'm just a groupie."

Clee had rolled his eyes at that, grinning, "Yeah, five minutes with the guy and I'm a superstar. I meant what I said earlier…I'd like to spend more time with you getting to know you."

"What," House had quipped, "knowing that I have a heart shaped birthmark on my ball sack isn't enough?"

"I'll admit that is pretty incredible information," the younger man had joked, "but I'm the curious sort. I'm still working on figuring out the Greg House you allowed me to see tonight, and I know that's just scratching the surface."

"Not that much to know," House had told him. "I'm a misanthropic son-of-a-bitch addict currently on the wagon trying to get his shit straight."

"Oh," Clee had responded, pretending to lose interest, "well, if that's all then it's been nice knowing you."

"You, on the other hand," House had said sleepily, smiling a little more, "are more complicated than you seem to be on the surface. You have secrets."

Clee had sobered with that statement and House thought he caught a glimpse of sadness appear briefly on the younger man's face before he quickly hid it again with a smirk.

"Everybody has secrets," he had replied. "It's what keeps things interesting."

House had had to agree with that, but being who he was, secrets also drove him crazy until he'd uncovered what they were. Before he could have said something witty in response Clee had leaned in to kiss him tenderly on the mouth. House had then returned it more passionately, reaching up and combing his fingers through the surgeon's hair.

When Clee came up for air he said with regret, "I should go, let you get your beauty sleep."

House certainly hadn't been ready yet for another romp—probably wouldn't have been for at least a couple hours (goddamn fifty-one year old cock!) but he felt disappointed and didn't want him to go home yet.

"I would have to hibernate for a year for it to have any effect on me," he'd joked self-deprecatingly as his ran a calloused hand down the length of Clee's arm gently. "You don't have to go if you don't want to. I won't mind if you stay."

"Are you sure that's what you want—?"

"Shut up and lie down," House had told him gruffly.

So Clee had stayed and when House awoke with the sun he was curled up pressed against House, an arm resting over his upper abdomen. He snored softly. Looking at him was enough to arouse the diagnostician. That was something he hadn't anticipated. Last night had been great, but House hadn't been certain how he would feel in the morning. He'd expected to have some regrets, or if not that then a little guilt because of thoughts of Wilson. However, neither was true. He wanted to touch him again, have another round of amazing sex before the surgeon left. House didn't know what to think about that, but thinking was the last thing he wanted to do just then.

Glancing at his watch House realized that is was already after ten. He smirked at the thought of everybody over at Hutton's place being up already and catching sight of Clee as he drove off of the property. That would get some hens a-clucking. He also realized that Clee might not want to spend much longer there.

Rolling from his back onto his left side to face the younger man, House began to comb his fingers through honey blonde hair. Clee looked boyish when he slept. After a minute or so House began to place little kisses along the younger man's jaw and neck. A small moan came from the surgeon before his eyes opened grudgingly. When he saw House and his brain registered where he was and why, a small smile crossed his lips and lit up his sleepy eyes. Clee rolled onto his back and House grabbed the opportunity to attack his mouth with his own.

"Mmmm. Good mornin'," he said quietly when House came up for air and then rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

"It _is_," House agreed, his voice deep with lust. "It's nearly a quarter after ten. There's no rush but I didn't know if you wanted to sleep much longer."

"Mmm, no," Clee agreed regretfully, slowly sitting up. "I have a date with my daughter. I'm taking her shopping, or so she told me. I really should get going."

House was disappointed to hear that his desire for another round with Clee was not going to happen, at least not that day. He sat up and watched the surgeon get out of bed. He took a moment to appreciate the view as Clee searched for his clothes.

"If you want, I can dig out some towels and you can take a shower before you go," House told him, yet another thing that he would never normally do. Slowly the diagnostician moved and brought his legs over the edge of the mattress and sat there allowing them to dangle for a moment or two. He was assessing the condition and pain-level in the damaged appendage.

"Thanks," Clee told him, "but I'll wait until I get home where I have clean clothes." He dressed as he spoke. "By the way, you look adorable when you're sleeping, House."

Snorting, House rose tentatively to his feet and put pressure on his right foot. A shot of pain caused him to wince and sit back down right away, holding his thigh. He was startled by Clee as the younger man was suddenly kneeling in front of him, removing the compression stocking to check out his leg. House instinctively reached to cover his scar. Clee shook his head slowly and gently pried House's hands off, setting them onto the bed next to him.

"Too late," he said softly with a half-smile. "I've already seen it. Still doesn't bother me."

House sighed and relaxed a little. The surgeon checked the pulses in his right leg and foot. Satisfied that they were good he palpated the damaged thigh muscles ever so gently and checked the incisions.

"The swelling isn't too bad. You have an infection starting in one of the incisions," Clee told him, glancing up at the older man.

"I know. Bonnar took a look and had a doctor back in Princeton write me a 'script," House told him. "I plan on getting it filled today."

Clee nodded in acknowledgement. "Unfortunately there's nothing fixable wrong with your leg except for the infection. Make certain you start those meds today."

"It's always sore first thing in the morning," House assured him, with a shrug. "It cramps up while I'm immobile but it will loosen some when I begin to walk on it."

"Do you have the supplies for the dressings on hand?"

"In the box in the bathroom," House answered. Before he could stop him Clee was in the bathroom, located what he needed and was right back.

"Lie on your stomach on the bed," the younger man told him. House rolled his eyes but complied.

"I thought you had a shopping expedition to get ready for," House grumbled, frowning. "I'm perfectly capable of doing this myself."

"Not as well as someone else can," Clee insisted as he organized the supplies and began to carefully clean the incision behind the knee with saline swabs before applying a new dressing onto it.

"You just want another view of my incredible ass," House told him, feeling uncomfortable but not wanting to admit to that.

"Guilty as charged," the surgeon quipped, smirking. "It _is_ a fine ass."

"_Incredible_, not fine," House insisted almost petulantly, earning a chuckle from the other man.

"I stand corrected," Clee replied. He finished the job and then leaned down to kiss House on the back of his neck and behind the right ear. "Okay, roll over and I'll change the one in the groin."

"Be gentle with me," House said coyly.

"You didn't seem to be bothered by this one earlier," Clee commented, working quickly so as not to torture House when there was no time to take care of his other need.

"I was focused on other things," House told him, pulling him down for a kiss.

After that Clee went back to locating and putting on his socks as House gingerly moved to sit over the side of the bed with him.

House began to put the compression sock back on; he hesitated a moment before asking him, "So…were you serious about wanting to get toge-"

"Yes," Clee answered before House could finish asking the question.

"Um…good," House said, nodding slowly and avoiding the other man's gaze. "There are no monster-truck rallies coming up around here but…I was thinking that you could come over, I'll make dinner and we can watch some of the twelve hours of Monster truck action I have saved on TIVO…?"

"Excellent," Clee told him, looking and sounding honestly enthusiastic, "but it'll have to be some time after this coming Tuesday. I'm on call and have prior commitments until then."

"Say…Wednesday night?" House suggested, finding his pants and quickly pulling them on without worrying about undershorts. He stood gingerly and gritted his teeth as he put some weight on his right leg again. After a moment the pain began to ease some; he pulled his pants up over his hips and did them up.

"Sounds fantastic," Clee answered with a smile. House looked around for his cane. Finding it he hobbled the couple of feet to where it was and picked it up off of the floor. He proceeded to walk Clee to the door.

"Thanks for an incredible evening, House," the surgeon told him as he placed his hands on House's hips and pulled him closer. House placed one hand behind Clee's head and the other on his waist, pulling him into a deep, lingering kiss. Clee participated enthusiastically.

When they parted House smiled bashfully at the younger man. "The pleasure was all mine."

Clee laughed, "Yes, and I was babbling and crying for Jesus because I was _bored_. Trust me, it _wasn't _all yours." He placed a quick kiss on House's mouth. "I'll call you for a time for Wednesday. Bye House."

House opened the door for him and allowed him to step out. "Bye, Justin—oh, and, um…you can call me Greg, I guess…if you want to."

"Bye, Greg," Justin said with a wink and then headed for his car. House shut the door and then exhaled loudly. That went a hell of a lot better than he'd expected—a _hell_ of a lot. He smirked to himself and then headed back to his bedroom to pop some ibuprofen, shower and dress.

**Saturday, June 12, 2010; 11:31 A.M.**

Olivia Hutton was in the shower when House stopped by with the empty casserole dish. His car sat in her driveway. It was David, her ten year old son, who answered the door.

"Hey," he said greeted blandly. The boy wore a t-shirt and pajama bottoms and looked like he'd just crawled out of bed; his hair was sticking up in all directions. "Mom's in the shower."

"I'm returning her casserole dish," House told him, handing it over and turning to leave.

"Wait!" David said quickly. House looked back, raising an eyebrow. "Is it true you gave Steph a ride on your motorcycle?"

There was envy in the kid's eyes. House smirked. Of course the kid was envious—what red-blooded American boy wouldn't be? Motorcycles were cool.

"I did," House admitted, knowing what was coming next and nipping it in the bud. "And no, I won't take you for one. You're too young. If I'm still around in five years we'll talk."

Frowning, David shrugged and sighed. "Whatever. My mom told me to call you to come over for breakfast since you have no food in your House. Auntie Linda and Uncle Gary are in the kitchen. She's making waffles."

"I had casserole for breakfast," House told him and took a few steps toward his car when he turned around and said as an afterthought, "Thanks."

Bonnar appeared at the door, her hands on her hips, smiling slyly. "Oh no you don't! You're going to come in and have a cup of coffee and tell us about your date."

"No," House corrected her. There was no way he was going to be ambushed by nosy women and forced to spill his personal life for their entertainment. "I'm going into town and get my 'script filled and pick up some groceries. Do you know of a service in the area that will deliver groceries to your door?"

"I'm not sure but if there are any it'll be on Google," Linda answered. "By the way you're babying that leg you shouldn't be doing a lot of shopping today. I'm going in to town with the kids in a little while to rent some DVDs. I can run your errands for you; besides, I'm supposed to be taking care of both Hutton _and_ you and I can't do that if you're gallivanting around the countryside. Just make a list of what you need and I'll take care of it. In the meantime, get your ass in here and keep Gary company. He feels overwhelmed by women."

House hesitated. He didn't want to be drilled for info but he realized that it was inevitable that he would end up telling them about his date just to stop their nagging and the smell of coffee wafting out of the house _was_ very enticing…

With a dramatic sigh he turned around and limped back up to the house. "One cup of coffee," he mumbled grudgingly as he stepped past her on his way inside.

Hutton's home had to have been at least five thousand square ft in size and was technically a split-level but it appeared that the only rooms upstairs were the bedrooms and a bathroom. It was an open space concept with the kitchen, living room and dining room with a three-way wood burning fireplace existing in one large space. The specific areas were defined from each other by the placement of the furniture and plants. Everywhere one looked there were windows and skylights allowing natural light to flood the interior. It was furnished with beautiful but practical furniture that was tough and durable enough to withstand the abuse of an active family. It definitely felt like a space that reflected Hutton and her personality.

David dashed around the diagnostician and took a flying leap onto the sofa in front of the TV. House had no idea what the kid was watching aside from the fact that it was animated.

"David," Linda said sternly as she headed to the kitchen, "what have you been told about jumping on the furniture?"

"Not to," David sighed, rolling his eyes. House hid a smirk at the boy's behavior.

"And what happens when you jump on the furniture?"

"But I hate dusting!" the ten year old exclaimed, pounding a cushion with his fist.

"Should have thought about that before you jumped on the furniture," Bonnar told him calmly, leveling a look on him that told David that arguing with her would be a very foolish thing to do. "Turn off the television and get the duster."

"Yes, Auntie Linda," David growled in frustration but did as she said, turning the TV off using the remote control and then heading to a room on the other side of the house.

"House," Gary called from the kitchen, "Come take a load off." He was sitting on a stool at the island with a giant purple coffee mug in his hand. "How do you like your coffee?"

House did as he was told, sitting on another stool. "Black, tooth-ache sweet."

Gary got up and opened a cabinet to expose several other giant mugs of varying colors. "Pick your mug."

House's eyes fell on one in particular and half-smiled. "The red one."

"Good choice," the trucker told him, grabbing it and then filling it with coffee. He brought it, a spoon, and the sugar bowl over to House to fix it the way he liked it.

"After brunch and before I go to town I want to change your dressings," Linda told House. She was combining the ingredients for waffle batter.

"No need," he told her, scooping several three heaping spoons of sugar into his mug and stirring. "They were taken care of this morning." He took a couple of tentative sips of the hot brew.

Bonnar said nothing to that but simply nodded.

"So, I hear you had a hot date last night," Gary said before taking a sip from his mug. There was the tug of a smile on his lips. House noticed Linda cast a warning glance at her husband. "Last night that's all Linny and Liv could talk about."

"If I recall correctly, Gary," Hutton was heard to say as she came down the stairs from the upper level and joined them in the kitchen, "You were the one wanting to wager whether or not House, as you so gracefully put it, 'got laid' last night."

"Lies," Gary told House, shaking his head. "She's a compulsive liar."

"Quit projecting," Hutton told him with a smirk. She climbed onto the stool between the two men.

House rolled his eyes at the three of them. He sighed, setting his mug down. "If I tell you what happened, can we agree never to talk about it again?"

Hutton smiled softly and shook her head. "House, we're teasing you, that's all. It's your personal business and none of ours. If you want to talk about it, we're definitely interested but if you don't then we'll just drop it. Right?" She looked to Linda and Gary.

"Not a chance!" Linda said with a grin. "I want to hear the entire poop."

"Linny," Gary said, lowering a look at her.

The OB/GYN sighed and then nodded, pouting. "Yeah, you're right." She went back to making her waffles.

It was quiet for a moment or two…too quiet and it was making House uneasy. He didn't understand why they were so interested in him and his life—they barely knew him—but he figured it probably wasn't a big deal to tell them something. Besides, the quiet was deafening.

"Justin took me to an exclusive nightclub. It looked like a late fifties, early sixties cabaret club with a band and vocalist and dance floor. We had dinner and talked until the band started playing."

"Did you dance?" Linda asked, her eyes sparkling with interest.

House shifted a little in his seat. He cleared his throat. "One slow dance. I'm not really up to the tango with this leg of mine."

"What was the song?" Hutton asked, smiling and lifting an eyebrow.

Sighing, House thought a moment. He'd been so focused on Clee that he had difficulty recalling. "'Cry Me a River'," he answered, finally remembered. "Why?"

"Because they're nosy women," Gary replied, receiving two glares and a pot holder thrown at him in response.

House couldn't help but smirk in amusement. "After the dance we went back to the table and talked until the club started to close shop and then he drove me home." He drank another swallow of coffee, hoping they didn't ask him what happened after that.

"You must have talked for hours," Hutton marveled, looking pleased.

"Forget the talking," Linda interjected. "I want to know if something happened on the way home or after you got there."

House rolled his eyes yet again. He tried to think of a good, vague comeback. "He drove me straight home and walked me to the door."

"That's it?" Linda asked, scowling at him suspiciously. "Nothing else happened?"

"That's it," he lied and exhaled loudly.

Hutton sighed, shook her head and then turned him on his stool to face her. "You're a liar," she told him with a knowing smirk. "You might as well come clean."

_Damn_, House thought, realizing that she must have noticed that either Justin's car didn't leave last night or she saw him leave this morning. The gig was up. She'd set the trap and he fell right into it. _Brava, Hutton_.

"Okay," he sighed. "He walked me to the door, told me he had a great time and wanted to see me again."

"And?" Hutton said. She really wasn't going to let him off the hook, was she?

"And," House started slowly and then quickly finished, "I jumped him, dragged him into the house and had mind-blowing sex with him."

"I _knew_ it!" Linda exclaimed smugly, raising her hand up. "High five!"

House stared at her hand and shook his head. He felt like he was blushing but he most certainly wasn't. Blushing was for chicks…and Wilson. He silently chastised himself for thinking about him again and pushed him back to the recesses of his brain.

"Linda!" Hutton cried and began to laugh at her best friend's reaction. Gary shook his head at his wife, feigning embarrassment (or was he really?).

"How'd you know?" the diagnostician asked the psychiatrist. "Into a little middle of the night voyeurism, are we? You should have told me—I'd have set up a chair for you, sold popcorn."

"Next time," Gary said from behind his coffee mug before finishing the last of its contents.

"I saw his car drive away this morning from my bedroom window," she told him, blushing a little. "I wasn't spying—I'd got up to go to the bathroom; I heard a car on the gravel and glanced out the window."

"So," Linda asked as she removed cooked waffles from the maker and then poured more batter in, "is there going to be a second date?"

Hutton got up and went into the kitchen. She put on an apron and began to cut up fresh strawberries for the waffles.

Sighing, House nodded and answered sarcastically. "Yes. I figured it was the least I could do for the fantastic fellatio. Should I tell you what we're going to do?"

Gary put up his hand as if saying 'halt' and chuckled uncomfortable. "I believe in to each his or her own, but I really don't think I want to hear this. I'm going to go check on David." He got up from the island and headed out of the great room towards the back of the house to find the boy.

House heard someone come bounding down the stairs and found Stephania approaching in her satin pajama's and robe. She had her hair pulled up into a messy pony.

"Hey," she said to no one in particular as she approached the gathering. "Mom, David's swiped my IPod again. That's the third time this week. Tell that little miscreant to stay out of my room."

"I'll tell him," Hutton replied. "In the meantime hide it where he won't find it."

"And where is that?" the fifteen year old grumbled. "He's like a blood hound. No matter where I put it he'll sniff it out."

"Hide it in your box of tampons," House suggested. "He won't go near it, trust me."

"Seriously?" she asked, looking dubious. "That will work?"

"_Oh _yeah," Linda told her with a nod. "If he has any idea what those are and what they're for he won't go near it with a yard stick."

A scheming smile began to emerge on the teen's face. "I'll try it."

"Wonderful," Hutton told her, "problem solved. Now set the table, Steph. Brunch will be ready soon."

The girl shrugged and went to get the dishes and flatware. David emerged with the duster cloth in hand.

"Finished dusting the study," he announced. "Gary said to call him when brunch is ready."

"If I go in there with a white glove and inspect will I find it acceptable?" Linda asked him, eyeing him suspiciously.

David must have known that she would actually do that if she figured her was lying.

"Yup," he told her. "Go check it now if you don't believe me."

House repressed a smirk. The kid was either telling the truth or calling her bluff; ballsy.

"I'll check it after brunch," Linda told him, looking as if she was repressing a smile of her own.

"So can I watch TV now?" the boy asked in the typical whiny tone of a ten year old.

"Nope," Hutton answered as she added sugar to the bowl of strawberries, covered it and set it aside to allow the sugar to draw the moisture from the berries to create its own syrup. "Go wash up for brunch."

"That sucks," David muttered, heading for the bathroom/laundry room.

"I said too much," House said uncomfortably. "Perhaps I should leave."

"You will _not_! Don't mind Gary, House," Linda told him. "He really is very open-minded, considering his upbringing. His father was a fanatical Southern Baptist preacher who ruled his family with a Bible in one hand and a razor strap in the other. His mother is a sweet woman who was held under his thumb for thirty years until he had a heart attack and died. She's quite conservative but she'd never purposefully hurt a soul. The first time Gary watched television was when he was nineteen and dating me. If I mention the word fellatio when it's just him and me he still turns beet red."

"His father and mine would have gotten along well," House commented quietly. He began to relax again. He understood baggage. He carried a steamer trunk on his back everywhere he went.

"So," Linda pressed, "What do you and Justin have planned?"

"Linda," Hutton interrupted as she stopped cutting oranges into wedges, leveling a look on her, "leave him alone. We've embarrassed him enough for one day."

"I'm not embarrassed," House insisted, even though he was, a little. "I just prefer to keep my private matters private."

"Oh, please!" Linda scoffed, rolling her eyes. "It's not like I'm asking what positions you'll try next. I'm just curious whether you're going to go to a movie or bowling or what have you."

"I'm making dinner and educating Justin on the finer details of Monster trucks with the competitions I have recorded. You'll have to ask me on Tuesday what the menu will be," House said sourly, glaring at her. "Oh, and next time I get to top. Anything else you want to know?"

David returned and immediately the women put him to work taking the food to the dining room.

"You cook?" Linda asked, surprised, appearing to be impressed. "You don't strike me as someone who cooks."

"I can cook very well," House told her. "I just prefer it when someone else does it."

"I quite agree," Hutton commented before carrying more food to the dining table. "It always tastes better when I don't have to prepare it."

David was told to go tell Gary that they were ready to eat. The boy went to the near end of the corridor leading to, among other rooms, the study and shouted, "Uncle Gary, come eat!"

Linda looked at David with a barely repressed smile, "_I_ could have done _that_."

"So why didn't you?" he asked her with genuine curiosity as he headed for the table. House sniggered at that, receiving a glare from the OB/GYN.

The conversation was light as they ate and the subject matter was G rated around the minors at the table. House said very little, preferring to listen to the others talk back and forth about a variety of everyday subjects. He thought he would have been bored by their prattle but found, instead, himself interested in most of it. Certainly it wasn't a highly intellectual discussion but that was what made it more palatable, somehow. These were normal people with normal lives enjoying a meal together. The kids didn't eat in front of Saturday morning cartoons while their mother was off doing her own thing ignoring them. They met as a family and talked. He wondered if this was a regular thing or if it was special because guests were present. Somehow he suspected this was normal for them.

It was so unlike the way his little family had interacted when he was a child. The kids here appeared to feel safe and respected and in return showed respect for the adults (as much as he figured was age appropriate). He used to dread sitting down with his parents for a meal. It usually ended up as a battle of wills between his father and him which usually resulted in some form of painful and humiliating punishment from the Marine. Not once had House felt free to express himself honestly without fear of quick and painful reprisal. Was this how _normal _people really lived on a daily basis?

The subject shifted to plans for the July fourth holiday.

"Are we holding it here this year?" Stephania asked her mother.

"Why wouldn't we?" Hutton responded, frowning a little.

"Well, you've been sick," her daughter explained. "I figured you wouldn't feel up to us hosting the party this year."

Hutton sipped at her herbal tea and shook her head. "No, we're hosting it. It's a tradition. You and David will have to pitch in a little more but I'm feeling better every day so there shouldn't be a problem." She looked at House and realized he didn't know about the annual Hutton Fourth of July BBQ. "For the past twelve years our family has hosted a BBQ party for Independence Day. Basically people from the community and friends from the hospital gather here. We have a huge feast at lunch which we try to hold outside unless it's pouring buckets. Otherwise we set up tents. There are games and activities for the kids, planned and run by Steph and a couple of her friends, games for the adults, a talent show where anyone who wants to participate can, dancing and then when it's dark out there are fireworks."

"The talent show is hilarious," Stephania told him, grinning. "Mom organizes it and people have to sign up ahead of time so Mom can make certain that the acts don't totally suck. It's kind of funny when some of the adults have a little too much to drink and then try to sing."

"That's Dr. Xander," David added with a crooked grin, referring, House assumed, to Xander Roth. "Uncle Justin says it's blackmail material for the year."

"That's right," Linda spoke up, giving House a wink. "Justin never misses it. His daughter and her mother and he husband usually come too. And I happen to know what he's planning to do for the talent show this year." She grinned smugly and waggled her eyebrows.

"Oh oh," Steph said, "I know that look! I'm taking the kids for a tour of the stables during that part of the show, aren't I?"

"It would be advisable," Linda told her with a nod but said nothing more.

"I always miss the best parts," Stephania complained mildly. "Uncle Gary…?"

"I'll be on the road this year, Steph," he told her, an indulgent smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "but Aunt Linda will bring the camcorder and record it for you."

"Just how…interesting…is his act going to be this year?" Hutton asked her best friend warily.

"All I can say is that he's going all out this year and you won't want to miss it," the OB/GYN answered, smiling deviously.

"How do you know what he's doing?" House asked her, genuinely curious.

"Because he needs my help with his costume," Linda said, "and I'm not saying another word. He threatened to drug me and stitch my lips shut if I let the cat out of the bag and I wouldn't put it past him." She got up and began to gather the dirty dishes to take back to the kitchen. "Please help me clear the table, David."

"Why me?" he protested crossly.

"Because Steph set the table," Linda told him, "and I told you to. Any more complaining and you'll be washing the dishes too."

Muttering under his breath David picked up a couple of glasses and followed Linda, shuffling his feet the entire way.

"You have to come," Stephania told House enthusiastically. "You could play the piano for the show!"

House looked at her dubiously, "I'll think about coming," was all he agreed to. He wasn't big on social gatherings; that's why, with the exception of the casino fundraiser at PPTH, he generally didn't attend them. When he had, it only had been to keep Cuddy from breathing down his neck and threatening clinic hours if he hadn't. Still, if this BBQ had the same atmosphere about it as this household did, it might not be such a bad thing, even if he simply came and made an appearance. He was curious as to what Justin had planned for his act.

After brunch was cleared and the dishes done House jotted down a grocery list for Linda and gave her the 'script Chase had written for him along with enough cash to easily cover it all. While he did that the kids dressed and then Gary and Linda took them to 'town' with them. Hutton looked at House and smiled.

"We haven't had a session in a while," she told him. "I think this might be a good time for that."

"You're on sick leave," He told her evasively even though he knew it wouldn't work.

"I can be seated for this, I believe," she replied. "Come; let me show you my study."


	37. Chapter 37 Part 3 Ch 3

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

† **Special warning: This chapter contains the retelling of a rape and may be quite graphic. If this is a trigger for you, you may want to skip the last of the three sections contained in this chapter.**

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Three: Saturday, June 12, 2010; 12:22 P.M.**

"Come; let me show you my study," Hutton said to him and began to head towards the 'back' of the house.

House rolled his eyes and limped behind her feeling vaguely like a sheep being led to the slaughter. "Change 'study' to 'boudoir' and I'll beat you there," he said cheekily.

"Didn't you get enough action last night?" Hutton asked him, amused.

"Yeah, but that was last night," he quipped without skipping a beat.

The study looked like a girly oasis of lace curtains with coordinating throws and cushions on the sofa and matching armchair. The room was well lit by the sun through large windows that looked out onto a field of grass and beyond that horse stables. Her desk looked ancient but well restored with an equally ancient looking chair. Scented candles on a tray sat on the coffee table.

"It's so…feminine," he commented, uncertain exactly what else to say without being outright insulting. With Hutton he preferred to cloak his insults a little.

"Well," she replied, "the last time I checked I _was_ female. Have a seat." She gestured towards the furniture.

House decided the sofa looked to be the most desirable. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to take over the sofa so I can elevate my leg."

"Of course," the psychiatrist agreed, nodding. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Comfortable is not possible," House told her as he removed his shoes and then lounged on the sofa with both legs stretched out before him. "Less painful is."

"Is there anything I can get you for the pain?" she asked but House shook his head.

"Unless it's a shot of morphine," he told her, "then no."

Hutton nodded, went to her desk to get a legal pad and a pen and then settled herself into the armchair.

"Before we start, I feel I owe you an apology for earlier," she told him meekly. "I got carried away and pressed you for more information than I'm sure you were comfortable giving about last night. I should have known better. I'm asking you to forgive me."

House looked at her soberly. He _had_ been bothered by the barrage of questions earlier, although most of the interrogation was conducted by Bonnar. He was so used to having his feelings and boundaries violated that he hadn't thought much about it since it happened. The fact that she was acknowledging her violation and apologizing only deepened his respect for her; he wasn't used to being treated with dignity and it felt good.

"If it makes you feel better," he told her, "then I forgive you."

Hutton smiled a little uncertainly and nodded. "Thank you. The last thing I want to do is compromise your trust in me."

"So I guess you're not going to ask me any questions about yesterday during this session?" he asked with a smirk.

"No," she agreed. "However, if there is anything you do want to work through concerning it then of course we can do that. It's entirely up to you."

He thought about that for a moment. So much had happened in the last week that it made his head spin, and it took quite a bit to do that to him. He had no idea what he wanted to discuss.

"I feel like I've been hit by a Mack truck, metaphorically speaking," he told her.

Hutton smiled at his description. "How so?" she asked.

Shrugging, House picked at a loose thread on the cuff of his shirt. "A lot has happened. I don't know how to feel about it all. For the most part, I just feel numb. Don't get me wrong—I'm not complaining. Numb is a welcome relief from the frustration and sadness and all of that shit of dealing with Wilson. I just know that I probably should be feeling stuff."

"Well," the psychiatrist said, sitting forward in her seat, "as you said it has been a very busy time for you; confusion over your emotions in the midst of it all is actually quite normal. Debriefing is a good idea but I can understand why that may be difficult. Would it help if we broke everything down, one event at a time and looked at it that way?"

House nodded slowly. "It might. So, where should I start?"

"Your choice," she told him, being less than helpful on purpose. He knew that by leaving it up to him she would be silently encouraging him to talk about what is foremost in his thoughts, presumably the most important issue for him.

"My leg," he said with a sigh. "The pain is…difficult to manage at the best of times. The surgery has only added to it. I'm eating ibuprofen like candy again. I find it difficult to stay away from alcohol when it really gets going since it used to help relieve the pain somewhat."

"I imagine it did," Hutton told him. "The problem with that is the pain relief is difficult to maintain with alcohol without having to fight the influences of intoxication on your ability to think and function as well as its damaging effects on your liver. There's also the risk of dependency."

Nodding, House looked away from her a moment as he pondered his situation.

"Justin gave me the name of a pain management expert," he told her. "I believe I mentioned that to you already."

Hutton nodded encouragingly. "Yes, I do recall you mentioning it. Have you decided to see this doctor?"

"Yes," House answered with a nod. "The only thing is I doubt there's anything that can be done to relieve the pain without involving narcotics of some kind which for me are taboo. It seems like an exercise in futility I'd just a soon avoid."

"I'm not up to date on pain management strategies," she admitted, "but I would imagine there have been advancements in what can be done for individuals in your situation since you sought out possibilities right after the infarction."

"I didn't really investigate long term pain management strategies after the infarction," the diagnostician admitted. "I was an asshole about almost everything at that time, refusing to cooperate with physiotherapy or waste time seeing any more doctors than I absolutely had to. Vicodin was working at that point so I convinced Wilson to be my prescribing doctor for it."

"And Wilson didn't insist that you be assessed by a specialist in that field before agreeing to do it?" Hutton asked, taken aback slightly. "That's unusual. I happen to remember from my 'real' doctoring days before my accident that it was standard procedure to refer patients facing pain management issues, especially chronic long-term cases, for an assessment by a specialist. I'm surprised that your attending physician didn't arrange for an assessment before you were even discharged from the hospital following your surgery. I know I was after my hand was amputated."

"I think the medical staff was in a hurry to get rid of me as quickly as possible," House told her, shaking his head. "I'm far from being a model patient. I believe the nurses on my floor were considering a strike if I wasn't discharged at the earliest possible date. I don't recall any kind of referral for an assessment being made, not that I would have gone, anyway."

"Why not?" Hutton asked as she quickly jotted down something on her legal pad in shorthand. "It's possible you endured years of needless suffering because you didn't go."

"I knew everything the so-called specialist knew," House told her without sounding boastful. He didn't need to boast when it was well-known that he was a genius that just absorbed information like a sponge. "None of the possibilities seemed suited for my needs or my lifestyle. I needed to be able to relieve the pain without impairing my cognitive abilities in order to do my job. The Vicodin was doing the job at that point so I saw no reason to mess around with anything else."

"But Vicodin isn't advised for the treatment of long-term pain due to the risk of damage to the stomach, intestines and the toxicity to the liver and kidneys; likewise there's the risk of tolerance development requiring increases in dosage over time to maintain the same level of relief. Then there's the problem with dependency and pseudo-addiction 1 to be considered," Hutton reminded him. "It seems highly irregular for Wilson, a doctor well-versed in pain management for his oncology patients, to agree to prescribe Vicodin for you for long-term pain without first insisting upon a specialist's assessment."

"Wilson knew that if I couldn't obtain the Vicodin legally then I would seek illegal sources rather than suffer," House told her in defense of the man who had been the only source of strength and support for him throughout the aftermath of the infarction. "He felt it was safer to be the one prescribing for me than risking getting Vicodin of questionable composition or origin or associating with individuals involved in the drug trade."

"So he thought he was protecting you?" Hutton asked, fascinated and trying to get a handle on just one of the many facets of this highly remarkable and unusual friendship.

"Yes," House answered. "I was the one manipulating him like the bastard I am."

"You're not a bastard,' Hutton told him sternly.

"Actually, I am," he quipped, "but that's another story."

"One I look forward to exploring with you someday soon," the psychiatrist told him with a half-smile. "In the meantime, what have I told you about self-deprecating remarks, insults and name-calling?"

"The truth is the truth, whether it's ugly or not," the diagnostician replied soberly.

"It's not the truth," she insisted and then moved on "How would you react to another doctor, who is a specialist in, oh, I don't know, let's say dermatology, a genuine world-renowned genius, believing that he or she knows more about diagnostics than you do?"

"I'd tell that moron to get bent."

"Of course you would," Hutton agreed. "So don't you think that it's possible that a physician who has spent years specializing in pain management might know more about it than you would?"

House stared at her a moment. How had he allowed himself to be drawn into that trap?

"Touché."

"I strongly advise you to make that call on Monday," the psychiatrist told him seriously.

"Okay."

"Good," she said with a nod. "Now, I don't want to press you for any more details, but I think it may be wise to talk about your date with Justin due to the fact that it's a significant move after the experience you had this last week with Wilson. What are your overall thoughts about how the date went? Did you enjoy it? Were you uncomfortable? Did thoughts of Wilson have any effect on your enjoyment? General things—I really don't need to know what color Justin's underwear was—no, seriously, I _really_ don't."

House couldn't help but smile amusedly at that. "They were purple," he told her mischievously. He sobered. "At first the date was uncomfortable. Neither of us knew what to say; it was awkward."

"That's not that unusual for a first date," Hutton remarked.

Agreeing, House replied, "It got better after we arrived at the club and as the night progressed. We talked and found out that we have a lot in common. He's into music, plays in a band, likes Jazz, the Blues, and classic rock and so do I. He owns a Harley but doesn't ride much. He enjoys baseball and basketball, doesn't mind dancing with a cripple and he can be just about as sarcastic as I can. He's also a bleeding heart in certain ways, but nobody is perfect. Politically we agree on a lot."

"You like him as a person, not just as a good lay," Hutton interpreted. "You're smiling as you talk about him."

Shrugging, House forced the smile off of his face. The last thing he wanted just then was to look dopey. "I suppose. But he's not a good lay."

"Oh?"

"He's a _god_ at fucking!" House told her exaggeratedly, looking for a reaction from her.

Hutton grinned in amusement. "He wouldn't happen to have a straight brother would he?"

House gave her an incredulous look, then smirked. "I'll ask him on Wednesday."

Giggling, Hutton responded, "Just don't mention my name. I'll never be able to eat lunch with him again." After she stopped giggling, she asked, "So you enjoyed yourself?"

"Obviously," he answered. "We have a second date. I did have thoughts of Wilson during the evening. You wouldn't believe me if I told you I didn't. I started feeling like I was cheating on him, but then it occurred to me that _he_ left _me_. It's not cheating if we're not together. I decided that I wasn't going to allow him to ruin my evening. I tried not thinking about him but that was an exercise in futility."

"Trying _not_ to think about something always is," the psychiatrist informed him. "The best way to eliminate the unwanted thoughts is to acknowledge them and then concentrate on thoughts you do want instead."

"I thought about trying to establish something with Justin," the diagnostician concurred. "I think I would be okay with that."

"House," Hutton said with an approving nod, "I think you're starting to get it."

**Monday, June 14, 2010; 10:06 A.M.**

"About time you arrived," House said irritably. "Typical woman, never on time for anything."

"Dr. House, who peed in your corn flakes this morning?" Stephania Hutton asked sarcastically as she walked past him into his house. He closed the door behind her and then limped back to the kitchen.

"They're Frosted Flakes," he corrected her, "and _nobody_ pees in my Frosted Flakes™ but _m_e." She followed him.

"You've done a pretty good job unpacking," the girl told him, looking around. "I came as soon as you called me—we didn't set a time. You have your suggestion for my science fair project?"

"I do," he told her with a nod, sitting down at the kitchen table. He had his laptop open on the table and a mug of coffee at hand. "Grab a coffee and sit down."

"Mom doesn't like it when I drink coffee," Stephania told him. House looked at her like she'd just told him the stupidest thing he'd ever heard.

"Do you _always_ do what your mom likes?"

The teen smiled crookedly. "When she's around I do. Not always when she isn't."

"So you _do_ have a few redeeming qualities," he told her with a nod, handing her his mug. "Warm this up, three sugars. Mugs are in the cabinet above the coffee maker. If you like to ruin yours there's milk in the fridge."

The teen went to refill his mug and grab one for her. While she did that he brought up his project plan on the laptop. With little else to do over the last couple of days but unpack House had had to time to create this 'proposal' and work out a few things for her if she chose to use it—but who wouldn't? This was something that no science camp kid and her parents were likely to see again. House had no idea why he was bothering with this; it was probably because he was bored. It couldn't have been because he actually liked the girl. House didn't like kids.

Stephania returned with his coffee; she was carrying one of her own as well. He noticed she hadn't put cream in hers and a corner of his mouth turned upward in approval.

"Pull up a chair," he told her. She grabbed one and placed it where she could see the laptop screen.

"What's this?" she asked curiously. "What's a _differential diagnosis_?"

"It's a tool I use in what I do for a living," he told her. "A patient comes into the hospital presenting with a handful of symptoms. I'm asked to determine what's wrong with him based on those symptoms; however a number of diseases or conditions may have one or more of those symptoms in common. Those diseases are listed; the ones that obviously can't be the one involved are eliminated. From those that are left testing, time, and the presentation of further symptoms and signs may further eliminate the wrong ones until the correct diagnosis is made and the patient is treated, if possible, for that disease."

"No offense but isn't that something all doctors are taught to do?" Stephania asked, looking at him.

"They're supposed to know how but obviously there are those who haven't got a clue how to do it properly or don't have the knowledge to figure out a diagnosis themselves," House explained with more patience than he thought he would have with her. "Sometimes it's more complicated and it takes a number of different doctors coming from different points of view and areas of expertise to collaboratively determine a diagnosis."

"So you're the guy the other doctors send their patients to when they can't figure it out themselves?"

"Yup," he told her with a nod. "I have a talent for seeing things others may not and a broad range of medical knowledge at my disposal," he answered. "In the past I've had a team of three or four other doctors who help me find the diagnosis, usually younger doctors continuing their medical education under me."

"So you're a teacher as well as a doctor?" she asked with a half-smile.

"I guess you could say that," he agreed. "Previously I worked at a hospital that specialized in the training of doctors and I had a team of fellows—doctors in training for a specialization—who worked for me. When the diagnostics department opens at St. Luke's most of the doctors I hire will already have experience in this field but I suspect I'll take on a fellow or two as well. Whether or not a doctor is fellowshipping she or he continues to learn throughout their career. A competent doctor does, anyway."

Stephania pondered that a moment. House swore he could see the gears moving in her head. "Are there patients that you can't diagnose?"

"Yes," House answered honestly, "it happens occasionally but very infrequently. I've had patients die before I've been able to determine what's wrong with them."

The teen frowned at that, "So it's never determined what they had?"

"Occasionally; sometimes an autopsy is performed on the body to determine what the problem was." House shook his head in irritation. "Too often a patient dies, no autopsy is performed because they died under the care of a lazy doctor who signs off on a cause of death that may or may not be the case; the patient is buried taking their diagnosis with them. Nothing is learned when that happens. Usually I or a member of my team performs the autopsies on my patients to determine what their problem was and how it was able to hide itself from us. I take that knowledge with me for future cases that may present the same symptoms the same way."

"So you're idea for my project falls into the field of diagnostics?" Stephania concluded questioningly. "It's definitely interesting but how do I create a project and presentation on that?"

House allowed himself a real smile. "That's for you to determine but I have ideas how to present this at your science fair in a very interactive way with the people who attend. Sit back and I'll show you. If you choose to do this I'll help you put it together but you'll have a lot of research and work to do."

"You're going to teach me how to be a diagnostician, even if I'm not a doctor yet?" she asked him, looking both amazed and excited.

"When I'm finished with you you'll know the _process_ better than your personal doctor," he said confidently, "but you'll have to go to medical school before you can work for me."

Grinning she nodded and got comfortable on her chair. "Okay, let's see what you've got," she told him. "Impress me."

House raised an eyebrow at that and smirked, then began his presentation.

**Monday, June 14, 2010; 2:30 P.M.**

Reaching for the jar of organic strawberry jam Olivia Hutton handed over the payment to the farmer's market vendor with a smile and put it into her reusable shopping bag. She enjoyed going to farmer's markets in the area and checking out the various products locals made with their own hands and brought to sell. The Birch Grove Farmer's Market was one of the best in the Philadelphia/Trenton region. She usually purchased her fresh produce and preserves there when she had the opportunity to go. She'd rested most of the weekend so Bonnar wouldn't have a conniption when she mentioned that she wanted to go. In truth Hutton was feeling much better and the dull headache that had bothered her day and night since the adenoma surgery had finally broken. She figured she could go back to work at least part-time now but her best friend and boss had agreed she was to take the full three week recovery period recommended by her doctors whether she liked it or not.

Hutton hated to be babied. She'd been through a hell of a lot worse than this in her life and survived.

"Oh look!" she said to her friend, pointing to a table a few feet away, "Organic honey."

Linda Bonnar looked at her friend like she in danger of going over the deep end. "_Organic_ honey?" she asked. "Since when were bees synthetic?"

With a laugh Hutton elbowed the OB/GYN playfully. "No, Linda. This honey comes from hives that have been placed in fields that contain organically grown clover—no artificial fertilizers or pesticides were used. Bees can fly distances but they're more prone to remain close to their home hive and queen. So, these happy little bees take in the nectar of the organic clover, gather pollen on their fuzzy legs to spread the love among the blossoms, and fly home to the hive to make delicious honey."

"Only you can make the activity of insects sound sweet and adorable," Bonnar commented sarcastically. "And I was joking about the synthetic part. I do know what organic means. The bees feed on the nectar, fly back to the hive, and throw up most of what they've just consumed into wax cells that they made out of what they've excreted out of their backends. There's nothing cute and cuddly about it."

Turning up her nose, Hutton commented, "I like my version better." She selected a jar of liquid honey and asked the woman selling them, "Has this been pasteurized?"

"Oh, yes, definitely," was the response.

"I'll take this one," the psychiatrist told her and then proceeded to pay. Out of the corner of her eye she caught glimpse of an odd looking individual standing next to one of the booths pretending to be checking out the bags of onions when he was in fact staring at Bonnar and her. It gave her the willies. He was a man of average height with a brown Van Dyke beard and large black sunglasses wearing a navy ball cap, blue t-shirt with an _un_happy face on it and a pair of long green plaid shorts. He wore a large SLR camera hanging from a strap around his shoulder. Every so often he would snap pictures of the people and products at each stand.

As the two women walked away from the honey booth and turned their back on the man Hutton said softly, "Linda, maybe I'm just being paranoid but there was a weird looking guy at a produce booth about two tables away from the honey booth and he was staring at us the entire time we were there."

"You mean the one wearing the blue shirt and god-awful shorts?" Bonnar asked, glancing sideways at her.

Hutton nodded, her hazel eyes flashing. "He gave me the creeps. There's something not quite right about that one."

"Love, have you seen some of the freaks in this crowd?" the older woman asked her with a crooked smile and the rolling of her eyes. "We're the ones who stand out like a sore thumb. Every hippy, militia member, and Amish woman in the state must be here today. For all you know he could be an undercover agent of the Department of Homeland Security or as Gary likes to call them, the _Stasi_. 2"

"They're not the Stasi," Hutton told her, uneasily. "Look, let's go grab a cappuccino from over there and sit down." She nodded to the coffee stand a few yards away.

"Good idea," her friend agreed. As they stood in line to place their order Bonnar shook her head and sighed. "There he is again, Liv."

Hutton turned to look at her with eyes as wide as saucers, "Are you serious? He followed us here?"

"Yup," the OB/GYN said as she nonchalantly glanced over her friend's left shoulder, "and he's staring at _you_, not us. Hmm, looks like a potential suitor."

Glaring at her, Hutton muttered, "If he was the last man on earth I'd become a lesbian, thank you very much."

"Well you know," Bonnar quipped with a smile and a wink, "you wouldn't have to worry about her leaving the toilet seat up."

Barely hearing her, the psychiatrist turned around and caught sight of the stranger. As soon as he saw her look at him he ducked behind a port-a-potty. Hutton couldn't help but feel unnerved by it. No, she wasn't just unnerved—she was frightened, as evidenced by the trembling of her body. When it was her turn to order her voice shook with her body.

"Two _grande_ mochaccino, one low fat, no whipped cream, one with the works," she said and then licked her lips nervously. She didn't notice her companion staring at her with obvious concern.

"Liv, why don't you grab that bench before someone else does," Bonnar told her gently. "I'll take care of the drinks. Don't _worry_, I'm between you and him. If he starts heading for you I'll moon him—that'll scare the hell out of him!"

Hutton giggled nervously, "Oh give me a break, Linda. You're beautiful!"

"Ah, yes," Bonnar agreed with a hint of sarcasm. "The late Fitzgerald wrote, she 'was faintly stout, but she wore her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can.' 3 Obviously he was clairvoyantly thinking of me at the time."

"Oh, Linda," the younger woman said, shaking her head in disagreement as she went to sit down as instructed. Once seated she carefully glanced toward where she had last seen the strange man. Sure enough he was there, only this time when he saw her watching him he raised his camera and took a picture as proven by the flash going off. He pointed at her and then to the camera and with a lustful leer at her he pretended to lick it.

Gasping in fear and revulsion, Hutton quickly looked away and began to shake worse than before. As Bonnar was walking toward her with their mochaccino she saw her pale as a ghost and hugging herself. The older woman picked up her pace to reach her. She set the coffees down beneath the bench and dropped next to Hutton, both of her hands flying to her friend's upper arms.

"What happened, Liv?" she demanded with deep concern written all over her. "Hey! It's okay!"

Hutton shook her head adamantly. "N-no it's not. Can we leave now? I…I really just want to go home. Please?"

"Sure, Love," Bonnar told her, giving her a quick hug first and then helping the psychiatrist to her feet whether she needed it or not. The younger woman grabbed her purchases while her friend picked up the coffees.

Needing to know but not wanting to look herself, Hutton asked, "Linda—is he still there by the port-a-potty?"

"That creep?" Bonnar asked as she turned her head to look and then faced Hutton again. "I don't see him, Liv. He must have moved on. Is he the reason why you're jumping out of your skin?"

"I'll explain in the car."

Once they were safely buckled into Bonnar's SUV and the doors were locked Hutton began to relax a little. She was better still once they were on the road. The OB/GYN kept looking sideways at her as she drove, a frown drawing her eyebrows together.

"Okay, we're in the car. What the hell happened back there? I have never seen you that afraid."

Nodding, the younger woman took a few deep breaths and let them out slowly. Her heart was still beating hard and fast in her chest. "When I sat down at the bench I looked at him, thinking I might be able to stare him down. He stared right back then took a picture of me before I could look away. After that he pointed at me, at the camera, and pretended to lick the thing."

"Shit," Bonnar spat angrily. "The fucking pervert. I wish Gary had been here with us. He would have snapped that dipshit in half just for looking."

Hutton nodded and told herself that it was nothing and she was safe but she couldn't get rid of the creepy, dirty feeling she had. She wanted to cry, actually, but she hated doing that in front of other people, including her best friend. _Pull yourself together, Olivia!_ she chastised herself silently.

Bonnar was still stealing glances at her as they drove. Neither woman talked for a couple of minutes, listening to the quiet music playing on the radio. It was Bonnar who spoke first.

"So, what did that remind you of, Liv, that it terrified you so? There was no way that meltdown back there was due to that creep alone."

Looking straight ahead the psychiatrist felt her mouth go dry. It was something she loathed to think about and had actually managed to stash away in the closet of her mind quite effectively until today. Now that it had been taken out it would be a long time before she would be able to hide it away again.

"Liv?" Bonnar said gently when her friend didn't respond.

She couldn't look at the older woman when she explained, "Shortly after Marcus died I found myself in a crowd at a shopping mall. I was alone, Steph was at a friend's house for a sleepover and David was at a sitter. There was a guy in that crowd who…touched my bum and it wasn't by accident, trust me. I caught a glimpse of him before he disappeared among all of the people. Later I had stopped at the food court for a snack and low and behold the guy sat down three tables away from me and leered at me for about ten minutes before I'd had enough and moved to another table. Well, he moved with me. I felt like his eyes were undressing me and it totally creeped me out. That's when he pulled out a digital camera and took a picture of me. I didn't finish eating and got up to leave; I saw a mall cop and went over to him to report the weirdo. Well, by the time I reached the cop, the guy was gone.

"I had a few more things to do at the mall, so I finished that off. By the time I was ready to leave it was dark outside. Wouldn't you know it, the area of the parking lot I left my car at had a burned out street lamp so it was quite dark. I had never been afraid of that sort of thing before so I headed to my car without a second thought. I unlocked the trunk, put my bags in there then got into my car and before I could do up my seatbelt the same creep jumped up from where he'd been hiding in the backseat and put his filthy hands over my mouth."

"Oh my god! Liv!" Bonnar exclaimed in horror, shaking her head.

Hutton continued without stopping. She had to get the story out and over with as quickly as possible. "He put a knife to my neck and told me that if I screamed or did anything to try to escape or tip off other drivers he would slash my throat open. I was instructed to drive to a back alley of his choosing where he proceeded to rape me, steal my purse, diamond engagement ring, and wedding band, knock me out cold and steal my car. I woke up in the Emergency Room of the University hospital with the police and rape crisis team waiting for me. Six hours later I was discharged. I called Darryl Nolan; he and Betty picked me up from the hospital and drove me home. Darryl gave me a nice big dose of Ativan and naproxen and they sat with me until I fell asleep. Betty stayed through the night and Darryl went home. The next morning I went to work as usual despite the fact that Darryl threatened to have me hospitalized until I came to my senses and took some time to recover."

"Why didn't you ever tell me this?" Bonnar demanded incredulously. "You've kept that a secret all these years? I would have been there for you had I known!"

"I _know_," the psychiatrist told her, not aware of the fact that her face was wet. "But you were really sick then and undergoing testing which eventually pointed out your MS. The last thing you needed at that time was the additional emotional stress of comforting and supporting me. The only people who knew were Xander, my supervisor Vince Golly, Darryl, and Betty."

"And you didn't tell me about it later because it was too traumatic to talk about," Bonnar finished for her with a shake of her head. "That guy back at the farmer's market—he wasn't the same guy—?"

"No," Hutton assured her. "No, the guy who raped me was arrested for another rape that happened in that same area a month later. The police added two and two and called me to a line-up. It took me less than a second to pick him out. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget his face; I really wish I could. My rapist pled guilty to a lesser charge his lawyer got him in a plea bargain with the DA. There was no need for a trial, thank god! I don't think I could have sat up at the witness stand and have to relive that night for a room full of strangers without losing my mind. Gerald Emery Warring was handed two concurrent ten year sentences with no parole until seven years were served. In two years I get to testify to the Parole board about the effect his crime has had on my life and hopefully convince them to keep him locked up until he serves every last second."

"Concurrent sentences!" Bonnar scoffed, scowling angrily. "Only ten years…that guy should have been sentenced to spending those ten years hanging only by his balls."

A weak smile was all that Hutton could muster upon hearing that statement. She felt nauseous and couldn't wait until she got home and had a long, hot shower. Whoever that pervert at the market was she hoped she never encountered him again. She decided that she was going to dig out that old revolver her husband had owned and willed to her, just in case. She didn't like guns, but she liked rapists even less.

**~0~**

1 Pseudo-addiction: a condition that occurs when a patient's signs and symptoms of existing pain are misinterpreted by care providers causing a failure in adequate pain relief provision. The signs and symptoms are usually associated with the behaviors displayed by drug addicts seeking to receive superfluous analgesia. Pseudo-addiction normally occurs in the presence of acute pain experienced by a chronic condition.

2 The Stasi: also known as the Ministry for State Security (_Ministerium für Staatssicherheit_ or MFS) which was the official state security and intelligence service of East Germany before reunification. One of the most effective and repressive intelligence and secret police agencies in the world, its motto was "_Schild und Schwert der Partei_" (Shield and Sword of the Party), that is, the ruling Socialist Unity Party in East Germany (The German Democratic Republic or _Deutsche Demokratiche Republik_).

3 Taken from The Great Gatsby. by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Published in 1925 by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York, N.Y.


	38. Chapter 38 Part 3 Ch 4

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **6998

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Four: Wednesday, June 16, 2010; 10:00 A.M.**

House looked over the schematics that Roth sent him via E-mail. The construction of the 'shell' of the new diagnostics department was just about complete, way ahead of schedule and the work on the details was set to begin in a week. The contractors needed House to finalize and approve the final details before they could begin to work. He was glad for something to do to keep his mind active, even if it was only for a few hours. He was getting very bored and stir-crazy and needed something to do to keep himself from becoming depressed. Working on his new department was just the thing to cheer him up.

In one more week he had the go ahead to begin working part-time at the hospital, during which he would be supervising the development as well as going through the first of the CVs arriving from doctors seeking employment under the leadership of the enigmatic and world-renowned diagnostician Dr. Gregory House. Robert Chase would be finished his two weeks' notice at PPTH and would begin employment at St. Luke's at the same time. He would be full-time on the payroll; Roth had been impressed by the intensivist when he'd met him the day before. He'd be helping House go through the CV's and interviewing the candidates they chose out of those. When he wasn't working on that he would be working in ICU with the chief intensivist at St. Luke's, Dr. Gloria Pagret.

He was coming up on Friday evening to look at apartments he'd checked out online with a real estate agent and staying in House's guest room. Both men were a little leery about the situation, fearful they would drive each other crazy with their differing habits and behaviorisms but House was able to tolerate the idea knowing that it was just for the weekend. After that he would have his privacy back. House was willing to do it because Chase had been very helpful to him since his recent release from Mayfield and he wanted to prove that he wasn't quite the same bastard he used to be.

Stephania had been by the day before to help House finish with the last of his unpacking and work a little on her science project with him while David had driven the lawn tractor around House's yard and used a push mower and weed-whacker where the mower couldn't go. The girl had mentioned something about a scare that her mother had had at the farmer's market on Monday but didn't know any of the details because Hutton hadn't wanted to speak about it. She was a little concerned about her mom because she'd stopped eating, insisting that she had an upset stomach. House had immediately gone next door to check on the psychiatrist but Hutton had been sleeping and talked instead with Bonnar. She had confirmed that something had happened but couldn't go into details because Hutton had asked her not to. She'd managed to get her best friend to eat a little cream of wheat and eggs with toast but little else. She'd promised to keep working on the younger woman and if she continued to have difficulty eating would let House know.

House, not confident that the OB/GYN would let him know if Hutton didn't want her to, went over again after going through the schematics and plans. It was raining lightly out and the diagnostician was a little damp when he arrived with his medical bag at the main house. Stephania answered the door and welcomed him inside, taking his jacket from him and hanging it up.

"Is she any better today?" House asked the girl. The teen shook her head.

"She had some chicken noodle soup for supper last night but threw it up in the middle of the night. She can barely keep water down today and was asking for more of her antacids this morning. I'm kinda scared."

House nodded, frowning slightly. "Is she in her room?"

"Yes," Stephania told him. "I'll show you where it is." The girl took him upstairs. House was glad it was only one flight of stairs to navigate with his bad leg and cane. Hutton's bedroom was the one at the end of a long corridor. House knocked lightly on her door and Stephania went back downstairs.

"Come," came the command from within. House opened the door slowly and peeked in tentatively. Hutton sat up on her bed, her lower body covered with her bed covers. She wore a satin sleep shirt that the diagnostician took in approvingly. The eggplant color suited her well. She looked pale and tired. In her hand she loosely held the remote control to the plasma TV mounted on the wall opposite the bed.

Hutton looked up and seeing it was him smiled apologetically and muted the TV. "Linda said Steph went to you about my stomach bug all worried about me," she told him. "I'm fine, really. It's just a touch of the flu."

"In June?" House asked dubiously, entering the room and shutting the door. He moved to her bed and set the bag down on the end of it. "I'll have you know that I charge an exorbitant amount for house calls."

"I don't need a house call," she told him with a shake of her head. "I just need bed rest and fluids."

"Except for the fact that you are still seriously underweight and your stomach can't handle the excess acid that isn't being neutralized by food inside of it nor the strain on it from vomiting.," House informed her. He opened his bag and pulled out a stethoscope and an oral thermometer. "You're lucky my anal thermometer broke the last time I used it. The readings from it are much more accurate." He smiled deviously. Giving the oral thermometer a shake he then placed it under her tongue. "No talk unless you want a mouthful of mercury."

She slumped in resignation. In about a minute House removed the thermometer and checked the reading.

"Ninety-nine," he told her, wiping down the end of it with an alcohol swab before returning it to its small case and putting the entire thing back into his black bag. "Not much of a fever. Any muscle soreness, headache, sore throat or congestion?"

Reluctantly Hutton shook her head.

"Then it's not the flu," House told her without need. They both knew that she was aware of the symptoms of flu. "What about blood in your vomit? Or pain?"

"No real pain," Hutton told him. "Just a little discomfort. A trace amount of blood the last time I threw up but that could be accounted for simply from my throat, not necessarily my stomach."

He narrowed his eyes skeptically but said nothing to that. "No headache at all? Or double-vision, disorientation or confusion, dizziness?"

"No," she answered. "House, I'm fine. I just don't feel the best. It could be something I ate before."

"Did you eat anything that the rest of your household didn't?"

"No," she said once again. "And no, no one else has been sick to their stomach."

"Then it's not food poisoning," House answered. He took his stethoscope out of his bag and put in on. He placed the drum against her chest over her top and listened then told her to breathe normally as he listened again and moved the drum to her back to listen. He frowned.

"What?" she asked, seeing his expression. He took off his stethoscope and put it back into his bag.

"You still have a slight arrhythmia due to your anorexic state," he told her. "Have you been eating the high potassium foods I suggested—bananas, potatoes with the skin on, avocadoes, tomatoes, oranges and lean meat?"

"I've had bananas, oranges and meat—that is, a few days ago. I haven't been able to eat since Monday," the psychiatrist admitted. "Even water comes back up."

"Try taking it a tablespoon at a time," he suggested. "One every ten minutes for the rest of the day. If you still can't keep it down you'll have to be admitted to the hospital and put onto an IV to prevent dehydration. Might not be a bad idea anyway. An ultrasound of your stomach and small intestines could indicate any further problems with the ulcers or gastrinomas that may have been missed—"

"I don't need to go to the hospital," she told him, rolling her eyes. "I'll take the water the way you suggested. I'll be fine. Shouldn't you be back at your place starting your dinner preparations for Justin tonight?"

"I have plenty of time for that," House responded, sitting down on the edge of her bed. "Quit deflecting. If your problem isn't physical, then maybe it has something to do with what happened on Monday."

Hutton looked at him in surprise for a moment, "Who told you that something happened on Monday? It wasn't Linda, was it?"

"No," he answered. "Steph was worried about you and mentioned something happened but since she didn't know what and Bonnar wouldn't tell me I still don't know. Care to satisfy my curiosity or do I have to keep sniffing around and harassing you until I either find it out for myself or one of your confidants breaks and tells me?

"You are as bad as Linda!" she told him in exasperation.

"Bite your tongue!" House said, offended. "She's an amateur. Look, your illness, which began on Monday is either physiological or functional. A first year med student would be able to figure that one out. We've pretty much ruled out physical. Talking to me about what happened might help. If nothing else, it will break the monotony for me for a few minutes. Either way it's beneficial."

"I've already talked about it with Linda and Darryl," Hutton told him with a sigh. "He thinks the same thing as you, that it's related to post-traumatic stress. Okay…fine. I'll tell you, if for no other reason than to entertain you."

"Should I go pop some popcorn?" House retorted, smirking. "Do I need three-D glasses?"

Glaring at him, less than impressed, she answered, "All you need to do is shut up and listen."

"Oooh, testy today, aren't we?" he quipped, cocking an eyebrow. "Fine, as of now my lips are zipped." House mimed zipping his lips closed.

Rolling her eyes as if saying, 'good grief' she began to tell him about the creepy guy at the farmer's market and then the bare basics of what had happened to her five years before. House's comical expression quickly faded as the weight of her words impressed themselves upon him. He was frowning in concern by the time she finished her story and sat silently for a moment while he processed what he'd heard.

"Son of a bitch!" House cursed softly. "Did you report that sick fuck to the police?"

Hutton shook her head. "He took off shortly after that happened—just disappeared. What would I tell the police? That some thirtyish weirdo with a poor fashion sense followed me around a farmer's market and took a picture of me? They'd treat me as if I was an idiot if they even took my call to begin with. Do you have any idea how many sexual assaults were reported just in Philly last year? Nearly a thousand. Some creep snapping pictures of women is not going to interest them."

"Unless that guy has done this to other women at that market," House told her sternly. "Perhaps he's pushed it further than that with someone else. Report it. The worst that happens is they tell you they'll note the report in their logs and it never gets looked at again. Listen, the guy who raped you probably freaked out other women in that mall who were fortunate enough to avoid being attacked before it happened to you. If they had reported it to the police that guy may have been feeling the heat and kept away from you that night."

Hutton appeared to consider what he said for a second or two before sighing in acknowledgment. "That's what both Linda and Darryl told me. What do you know, House? You and Nolan are actually in agreement over something." She smiled at him teasingly and winked.

"Hey, there's no need to be insulting," he told her. "I'm actually trying to help. So why are you punishing yourself if you were the victim in all of this?"

"What do you mean?" she asked him, looking genuinely puzzled. "I'm not blaming myself for this."

"Sure you are," House told her bluntly. "That's why you're punishing yourself by making yourself sick and then not eating which only adds fuel to the problem. What, do you think that you're doing something to attract these perverts and so when they offend you, you think that somehow you were asking for it? God, you have quite the ego!"

"House," she began and then appeared to have nothing to say.

"House what?"

Sighing the psychiatrist shook her head. "How do you know I'm not?"

"Are you telling me you really believe that you are somehow luring these guys to yourself?" the diagnostician demanded in dismay.

"No…I don't know. But what if I am? What if there is something about me that just screams to rapists and weirdoes to 'come and get it'?"

"Do you know how irrational you sound right now?" House told her, frustrated with her. "You and I both know that sociopaths and sexual deviants have their own reasons for choosing who they will victimize and that it has absolutely nothing to do with the victim—what she's wearing or doing or engaging in. There is nothing wrong with you that a few pans of lasagna wouldn't cure right now. Not eating may give you a sense of control over something in a situation where you have no control over what those freaky fucks do but in the end it hurts you, not them, and you discover that you're out of control fast when you do that."

"You know about the anorexia, don't you?" she asked him. "You went deep enough into my medical file while I was sick to find out about it."

House nodded, not even bothering to deny it. "I looked at everything in your medical history for clues as to what was wrong with you."

Hutton frowned suspiciously, "But you never said anything about it until now. How come?"

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly then shrugged. "I figured that if you wanted to talk about it you would and since it was unrelated to your condition there was no need to bring it up. I did now because it's relevant here."

"And it doesn't bother you to know that your therapist used to have an eating disorder?" she asked him incredulously.

House couldn't help but be amused by her confusion. He'd always seen things in people others didn't see and didn't necessarily appraise people based on the criteria that most others did. Despite what he might say in moments of emotion or manipulation, he didn't give a damn about her past issues as far as it came to her ability to help him with his.

"Sure it does," he told her with a nod, "just not for the reasons you think. I actually don't dislike you, Hutton, so it is relevant to me whether something is wrong with you or not." He rose to his feet and picked up his bag. Walking towards the door he stopped just before he reached it and looked back at her. "I'm going to send Steph up here with some weak ginger tea and dry toast. Eat it and keep it down. Quit beating yourself up for something that's not your fault. It just makes you look like an imbecile."

He opened the door and took one step out when Hutton called after him, "House."

He looked over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

"Thanks for caring," she told him with a warm smile.

House shook his head. "Somebody once told me that's what friends do—they care for each other. I can't remember who that idiot was."

He caught a glimpse of her smile growing as he looked forward again and left the room, hiding a tiny smile of his own.

**Wednesday, June 16, 2010; 7:30 P.M.**

The doorbell rang just as House was removing a baking dish out of the oven. He set it down onto a cooling rack on the counter, closed the oven door, tossed his oven mitts onto the counter and went to the door. Opening it he found Justin Clee standing there looking incredibly sexy in his deep wine colored button up with white T underneath and tan twills. Upon seeing House he smiled approvingly, staring at House's apron. It read: 'Forget about kissing the cook…unless there's tongue involved'.

"Okay," the younger man told him, stepping forward, grabbing House's hips and pressing a passionate kiss onto his mouth, almost immediately pressing his tongue into the older man's more than welcoming mouth. In return House placed his hand behind Clee's head and deepened the kiss. He felt himself hardening in his arousal which had gone from zero to sixty in less than five seconds. His first impulse was to turn off the food and drag the blond into his bedroom. He pulled away gently to control his cravings, smirking at his date.

"Hello to you, too. Better come inside before Bonnar and Hutton arrive with opera glasses."

Clee chuckled at that and stepped into the house. House closed the door behind him and then took his coat and hung it up. They moved into the house proper and Clee followed him into the kitchen.

"Dinner smells incredible!" the surgeon told him. "What are you preparing?" He climbed onto a stool at the island.

"Tonight is Tuscan," House told him. "The appetizer is _Formaggio con le pere,_ or pears and cheese followed by _Crema di Porri_, leek soup. The main course is _Coniglio Ripieno_, stuffed and roasted rabbit, served with _Patate lesse_ or boiled potatoes and _Asparagi_, asparagus. For dessert, _Sorbetto_, lemon sorbet. The wines will be a fine Chianti reserve and _Vin Santo_ with dessert."

"You did _not_ go to all that bother for _me_, did you?" Clee asked him, shaking his head in incredulity. "Just so you know I would have put out for hot dogs and beans with domestic beer."

"Next time," House told him, smiling slightly. "I found in the past that cooking helps distract me from pain and occupies my time when I'm bored. It doesn't work long-term but from time to time I enjoy it. I've been told I'm competent."

"It smells like you're better than competent," Clee told him, nodding approvingly. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Nope," House told him, "everything is taken care of." He went to the fridge, "You want a beer while you wait?"

"I'd love one," the younger man told him. House pulled out a bottle for him and a can of ginger ale for himself. After removing the cap House placed the beer in front of him and then pulled the tab on his can and took a swallow of the soft drink. He frowned slightly, staring at the can in dissatisfaction. A beer would have been so much better. Shrugging, he set the can down and then checked on the potatoes and asparagus.

"So you keep alcohol on hand when you're not allowed to drink any of it?" Clee asked, curious.

"Only if I know I'm having a guest or guests," House admitted. "Otherwise that would be masochistic." He pulled up a stool and sat down, sighing in relief. His leg was sore and giving it a break from time to time helped keep the growling monster at bay—that and a double dose of Ibuprofen.

"So what do you do with yourself these days when you're not cooking?" his date asked him after taking a pull off of his bottle.

"Oh," House answered with a wry smile, "I'm working on the development of the diagnostics department online, learning to speak Russian, watching TV—my soap opera, reality, and home-improvement shows, and playing the piano or guitar—I'm composing a song I'm considering playing at Hutton's Independence Day talent show. I'm coaching Stephania on her science fair project, catching up on reading my professional journals, watching porn and masturbating. What have you been up to?"

"Oh, you know," Clee answered, grinning at House's list of activities, "working like a dog and sleeping for the most part. Masturbation fits in there from time to time."

"Thinking about me, no doubt," House said sarcastically.

"Yes," was the honest answer.

House raised an eyebrow at that, feeling self-conscious. He hid it by getting up to check on the food again.

If the surgeon noticed he didn't say so. Instead he mentioned, "I meet with my band tomorrow night to practice—we have a real gig on Friday night."

"Where?" House asked him, his interest piqued.

"A small bar in the city—The Crater Club," was the answer with a shrug. "This week it's just Friday night. Next week it's both Friday and Saturday night. If you have nothing better to do, why don't you come with me tomorrow night, meet the other members?"

"Why not?" House answered with a nod. Inside he was excited with the idea of going along and listening to Clee and his band practice but didn't want to let on that he was as eager as he was. Obviously the younger man had no qualms about letting his friends know that he was dating him. House wasn't used to people being willing to let their other friends and peers know that they associate with him. It also meant more time spent with the surgeon.

"Excellent!" Clee responded happily. "I think you'll really like the other members."

Unable to resist it House couldn't help but smile at the younger man fondly. "Yeah, but will they like me?"

"What's not to like?" Clee asked him. House snorted at that.

"Where do you want to begin?" House answered, his smile fading. "I can introduce you to a ballroom full of people who believe the world would be a better place without this particular asshole in it."

"Including you?" Clee asked him pointedly. "I'd be interested in meeting this awful man for myself because so far I haven't met him."

House looked away, feeling even more self-conscious before. He really liked Clee, and that's why he felt the younger man had a right to meet the real Gregory House, but he didn't want him to. He didn't want to watch another person decide that he wasn't worth it and walk away from him.

"You will," House told him quietly. "I can only keep him caged up for so long."

"Let him go," Clee told him, reaching to rest his hand on House's and squeeze it gently. "You've only been in Philly a few weeks but you already have people who appear to be quite taken with you. I'm sure you haven't kept 'him' hidden all this time. Besides, I like a little bastard in my men. Makes them more interesting and compliments my inner bitch quite well."

House laughed at that and Clee joined in.

When dinner was ready House served at an elegantly set table. Their conversation was light as they ate and House felt himself relaxing again. There was something about the other man that made him feel at ease with him and himself, which was a rare thing indeed.

"So what are you planning on doing for Hutton's talent show?" House asked him as he cleared the table of their dishes from the main course. Clee helped despite the glare he received from the older man. Upon mention of the talent show he began to chuckle deviously.

"Uh uh, not going to tell you," the surgeon told him. "Linda didn't tell you anything, did she?"

House shook his head, accepting the dishes from Clee. "She said you threatened to stitch her mouth shut if she did."

"I will, too," he said, still smirking. "If you want to know you'll have to show up at the BBQ. You know, as my date, unless you have a better offer."

"Right," House retorted. "I have every gay man, bisexual and hetero female knocking down my door." He went to the refrigerator and took out the _sorbetto_ and began to plate it in small parfait bowls garnished with a sage leaf and the zest of a lemon and lime.

"Are you certain you never went to culinary school?" Clee asked him as they sat down again at the dinner table and House placed a bowl in front of each of them. "Dinner has been beyond fabulous!"

"Just a cooking class with Wilson," House answered. "Right after I got out of _Casa_ Mayfield the first time. I kind of liked it, but I'm too lazy to cook like this on a regular basis."

"That's the first time you mentioned his name tonight," Clee pointed out with a small smile before spooning some of the sorbet into his mouth. "Mmm, god this is good!"

"Shit," House said, frowning, "I didn't mean to mention him at all. Sorry."

Clee set his spoon down and looked meaningfully at the diagnostician. "I wasn't complaining. It was just an observation. I'm not that insecure. I realize he meant a great deal to you and I'm okay with that."

House looked at him with a look of bewilderment. "Why?" he asked.

Smiling slyly the surgeon answered, touching House's and again and then slowly caressing up his arm with his fingertips, cause goosebumps to appear on his flesh. "Because I'm the one you'll be making beg for more tonight, not him."

House grinned, his eyes showing the desire he felt at that moment. They never did finish the dessert course…or rather, the _sorbetto_. House took his hand and began to apply wet kisses to the underside of Clee's wrist, then his palm and then began to kiss and suck on his fingers. He could hear the younger man's breath hitch several times before he reached to him and pulled House into an ardent kiss. Tongues clashed, teeth clicked, and lips smacked as the kissing became hotter and more desperate.

"Fuck the…_sorbetto_…." House told Clee against the skin of his neck where he proceeded to lick and suck and kiss, drawing a gasp out of the other man.

"I…mmm…want you fuck _me_," Clee told him. He pulled away long enough to stand up and pull House up with him. House grabbed him possessively and crashed his mouth into Clee's, his hands roaming down from where they had grabbed his face along both sides of his neck, his shoulders and arms then made a little leap from there to his hips. He grabbed the loops on the surgeon's waistband and pulled his groin against his own. House was hardening quickly and could tell that Clee was already there. He ground his pelvis against the younger man's. Clee groaned and then bit House's lip excitedly, drawing a little bit of blood which only fanned the fire growing in his groin.

Slowly they made their way to House's bedroom. The living room sofa was closer but not as easy on the diagnostician's leg. Clee seemed to know this. The surgeon began to pull at House's shirt, rushing to remove it and then helped House remove his own as well. Hands roamed and caressed over bare skin. One of House's hands went to the bulge in Clee's pants and began to squeeze and rub it through the clothing, causing a groan from deep within the younger man to escape his throat. Quickly but carefully House unbuttoned the twills and lowered the zipper. He pushed them past the hips and allowed them to drop around Clee's ankle which the younger man then kicked off of his feet. They reached the bed just as House was tugging boxers down to expose Clee's erection. Locating the condoms the diagnostician put one on the other man and went down on him but this time Clee allowed him to finish what he began.

From the base of his penis House slowly began to lick up the sensitive underside of the shaft until he reached the head where pulled back the foreskin and began to tease the ultrasensitive flesh underneath and slide the tip of his tongue along the slit. This was driving the other man wild which had a similar effect on House. The surgeon had one hand gripping the mattress and the other combing through the graying chestnut hair on the diagnostician's head. House was fondling Clee's scrotum at the same time, and he was getting off on the pleasure he was giving him. He then took the younger man's cock completely into his mouth, forcing down the gag reflex as his length extending down into his throat. He began to suck and squeeze with his lips as he pulled up towards the head, circled the head with his tongue and then bob down again.

Clee was keening in delight, quickly losing control of his brain's higher cognitive functions. House could tell that he was near the edge and quickened the pace slightly. That's all it took to send the younger man over and he came hard muttering 'Greg' as he did and lay back on the bed bonelessly, completely spent. The diagnostician swallowed as much of Clee's seed as he could before releasing his softening cock from his mouth and spitting out the rest. House waited until he was coming down from his endorphin high before encouraging him up onto the bed and then the older man carefully crawled to recline next to him. His own need was becoming nearly uncontrollable and he needed release. He gently stroked his own length only enough to maintain his erection but being careful because he was so aroused. Clee recovered fairly quickly and gladly turned his attention to taking care of his older partner.

House grabbed another pair of condoms and lube from the drawer in the bedside table and they rolled them onto each other. Clee was about to roll over onto his elbows and knees but House stopped him.

"I want to see your face," he told Clee, his voice a low, sexy growl, a hand gently cupping his cheek. Nodding, Clee grinned and then they wordlessly agreed that the younger man would ride the older, facing him, as this would be easiest on House's lame and pain-filled leg. It also allowed for deep and passionate kissing. Gently House prepared Clee's opening and then the latter slowly lowered himself onto the older's length, moaning softly in unison with House. It felt so incredible that it nearly knocked the wind out of the diagnostician. After a few moments Clee lifted himself until House's cock was nearly out of him and then rocked back down until he was enveloped to the hilt. House matched his thrusts in rhythm with Clee's until they were in perfect synchronicity. He looked into Clee's eyes and noticed how much green there was with the blue there, and how each soft eye was trimmed with beautiful long, dark lashes. He realized he could lose himself in those eyes for hours and not grow bored.

Beads of sweat covered both nude bodies as they rutted, but it was more than just fucking. There was emotional communication and sharing that House hadn't expected so early into their relationship. He didn't push it away or try to restrain it from escaping him, though. It was what it was and he was glad for it. House grabbed the back of Clee's head and pulled him in for more kissing and nibbling. Both men groan and gasped into each other's mouths. House was close and from the small spasms he was feeling from Clee he knew he was again, too.

"Greg," Clee asked him, panting heavily, his body trembling, "oh god, so full….ahh…are you close?"

House didn't respond with words but shifted his hips slightly; his dick began to stroke against the younger man's prostate, causing him to cry out in ecstasy with every thrust. They began to speed up as they were both overwhelmed by the physical pleasure and the unexpected but incredible exchange of emotion.

"Oh…oh, Justin!" House grunted out before reaching his climax. His orgasm was stronger than anything he'd experienced since he was a much younger man, better than what he'd experienced the other night. Clee came two thrusts after, his head falling against House's shoulder. House's mind checked out for a minute or two as he rode the waves of delight. He was both giggling and sobbing, which he would later sternly and adamantly deny ever happened.

When he had come down from the intense bliss and gained his senses back Clee rolled over and lay next to House then slid over close to him and literally wrapped himself around him. House held the younger man tightly in his arms. They laid without speaking for several minutes, just listening to the way their breathing rates slowed and evened out. House could feel Clee's heart beating next to his and they seemed to slow at the same rate. It was warm in the house from the oven being on earlier; they lay with their nude bodies pressed together, their arms and legs tangled up with each other's and were not the slightest bit cold.

Reveling in the warmth of Clee's body against his House pressed a kiss into the blond hair on the top of the other man's head. Clee grinned and sighed contentedly.

"You're incredible," the surgeon told him softly, nuzzling his face into the soft hair on House's chest. "I don't know how-words fail me..."

"Mmmm," House hummed , combing his hand through the younger man's hair. "Was it just me, or did we…was there something more…oh, forget it."

"No, no there was," Clee nodded in agreement. I felt it too, Greg. I feel it now."

Nodding, the older man waited a few minutes more before saying, "Maybe…if you feel it too…it's real. Not just rebound."

"I don't know how it is for you, Greg," the other man responded, tracing soft swirls and loops across the skin of House's flank, "but for me it's real. I haven't felt like this since…since—"

"Charlie?" House finished for him questioningly.

"Yeah," Clee nodded. "It's so—"

"Cool," House finished for him again, nodding and smiling softly. "I know."

They held each other, dozed and when they awoke they began to talk about things much more intimate than they'd allowed themselves to do before. A trust had been established with the bond they'd shared during sex. House listened with intense interest as Clee spoke about his former lover, the man he'd expected to spend the rest of his life with until life turned around and sucker punched him.

"Charlie struggled with the depression for years before we met," Clee murmured. "He came from a pretty fucked up family. His father was an abusive alcoholic and his mother worked days as an office temp and nights as a prostitute to make ends meet. Charlie was left to take care of his younger brother and sister on his own. Eventually his mother was arrested and her children were absorbed into the foster system and separated. He was never able to find his siblings after that.

"The nightmares never ended for him. He'd wake up two, sometimes three times a night crying out for his brother and sister or begging his father not to kill himself. All I could do was hold him and keep telling him that I loved him. Finally one day he agreed to seek help from a shrink. I went with him to his first appointment with Nolan and I didn't really have an opinion about the man at that point. For a full year Charlie took his meds and went to therapy sessions without fail, but he kept getting worse. I went to Nolan a week before Charlie died and told that prick that he wasn't getting better, that Charlie wasn't sleeping at all anymore, was barely eating and had lost thirty pounds, was holing up in our condo and refusing to leave it for any reason. Nolan's only response was that he couldn't tell me anything about Charlie or his treatment due to HIPAA regulations.

"The entire week following that encounter I tried to convince Charlie to see another psychiatrist but he wouldn't. After a particularly grueling day at the hospital I came home to find our condo building on fire. It started in our suite. Charlie had doused himself with lighter fluid and…" Clee's voice drifted off. He couldn't bring himself to verbalize the rest. "The fire damage was isolated to our condo but there was some smoke and water damage to the units beside ours and directly below. Charlie was the only casualty." A shaky sigh escaped the surgeon. House pulled him even closer, if such a thing was possible.

"I'm sorry," House murmured into the younger man's hair. He didn't know what else to say. How did one comfort another person who'd lost the person who had been the most important to them in such a tragic and grizzly way?

"What about you? Is it still too fresh to talk about Wilson?" Clee asked him carefully.

House nodded and then realizing that the way the younger man was laying he couldn't see the gesture answered, "Yes. I want to tell you…just not now, not yet."

Clee shifted his body so that he could look up at House's face. He smiled understandingly.

"Okay."

House felt badly. Clee had just opened up to him about a very painful part of his life and the diagnostician wanted him to know that he wasn't trying to keep secrets or behave like he didn't trust him.

"I can tell you a little," he said with a sigh.

"Don't," the surgeon told him quickly. "You don't have to—"

"I want to," House assured him, caressing his face with the back of his hand. "I just can't tell you everything yet."

Nodding, Clee remained silent, waiting patiently on him.

House took a moment or two to steady himself before he began. "I met Wilson almost twenty years ago. We both were attending a medical conference in New Orleans when one evening at the hotel bar there was this drunken, sorry-looking young doctor sobbing into his drink holding divorce papers…" He went on to complete the story of how he and Wilson became friends and their early years as chums. He recounted just about everything up until he found himself on the floor of his bathroom after the crane disaster, omitting the painful period involving Amber and details of his breakdowns, the suicide attempts, and the struggles with Wilson following that.

"This is probably coming from the selfish motivation of wanting more from this," Clee told him, gently touching the healing scars on one of the older man's arms, "but I do think that you're better off without that kind of roller coaster uncertainty in a relationship. That would drive anyone to distraction."

Nodding, House agreed with him. He missed Wilson and would always love him but since Wilson finally had made his choice and ended their relationship and friendship altogether he'd felt a greater peace. Now he had someone else in his arms who genuinely liked him and for whom House cared. If he was lucky, this thing with Justin could grow and become something _very_ good, maybe even permanent. He reminded himself, however, not to put too much hope into it, lest it fails and he falls into disappointment again.

Lifting Clee's chin to look at him House kissed him tenderly.

Later, after a shower together, the men cleaned up dinner (Clee had insisted on helping and House wasn't hypocritical enough to act like he had a huge problem with that) clad only in t-shirts and underwear and then settled down on the sofa in the living room to watch monster truck recordings. House enjoyed introducing him to the entertainment form, explaining things, describing various amazing trucks, past rallies he'd attended. Clee genuinely paid attention, appearing to enjoy himself. He then started telling House about his interest in demolition derbies. The diagnostician found his enthusiasm adorable; House shuddered immediately after the fluffy adjective crossed his mind.

To distract himself from further objectionably sweet descriptions House began to attack the younger man's neck with his mouth and Clee responded with a gasp and grabbed House's head so that he could kiss him hungrily on the mouth. Thus began their second romp of the evening, leaving them sated and exhausted lying together on the sofa. House's leg hurt him but the endorphins in his system were helping to mask it some and it was tolerable. Clee fell asleep quickly after that. House pulled a throw over them; he was smiling softly when he drifted off as well.

Neither of them had noticed the eyes outside the house watching them through a break in the curtains covering the window, camouflaged by the dark.


	39. Chapter 39 Part 3 Ch 5

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count:** 7101

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Five: Wednesday, June 16, 2010; 12:10 P.M.**

Staring at the bowl of farina in front of her Hutton felt queasy. It wasn't that Bonnar's cooking was bad—in fact, it was excellent—but just the smell of anything food related made her sick to her stomach. Still, she was forcing some down and drank as much water as she could. She wasn't gaining weight but she wasn't losing any either. This farina, however, was making her nauseous.

"Love, if you don't eat you will have to go back to the hospital," Bonnar told her, looking at her from the other side of the kitchen island. "You know how much you _love_ being a patient. At least try to eat some of it, okay?"

Hutton nodded reluctantly and picked up the spoon. Scooping a little bit of the mushy cereal onto it she closed her eyes as she quickly put the spoon into her mouth before she could chicken out. She forced herself to swallow it down and then looked at Bonnar as if seeking approval. Maybe she was.

Nodding and smiling the OB/GYN said, "That's my girl. Keep doing that. I have to go into the hospital right away. My aging mother with twins I told you about a couple of weeks back? She's in labor too early and if we can't stop it we'll have to do an emergency caesarean. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Quit worrying about me," the psychiatrist told her, "I'm not a baby."

Bonnar looked from Hutton to the farina and then back to Hutton again. "You're eating what looks like pabulum, my dear. You might want to rethink that."

Smiling at her friend's dig Hutton waved her hands as if to say 'shew' and replied, "Go save mommy and babies already!"

"I want to see you put another spoonful into your mouth and then take a sip of your apple juice before I go," Bonnar told her stubbornly.

Rolling her eyes, Hutton forced another spoonful of farina down her throat and then took a small sip of apple juice. "There. Now go away."

Bonnar rounded the island, pecked the younger woman on the cheek and then went to the door. It was warm and sunny out so she didn't need a jacket. Grabbing her purse, she opened the door to see Gage Anderson's car pull up the driveway. She turned and called to Hutton, "Gage's here, Liv. You'd better eat that or he's going to ground you."

Hutton perked up. Gage? What was he doing here? It didn't really matter. A smile graced her lips. "Okay. Bye Linda!" she called back. A couple of minutes later she heard the front door open.

"Hi, Gage," she called, "Come on in, I'm in the kitchen." She stirred her cooling farina, staring at it as if it were mashed large intestine. Closing her eyes she took another spoonful in, swallowing hard and working hard to keep it down.

"You're eating," the pediatrician said as he pulled up a stool and sat down next to her. God, he looked good in his dark moss-colored suit, crisp white dress shirt and apricot and moss tie!

"That's the plan," she replied. "I'm wishing for a change in plans." She set the spoon down and sighed. "Linda called you, didn't she?"

"Actually no," Gage told her with a slight smile. "House did."

Hutton looked up in surprise, her eyes wide. "_House_ called you?"

"Yup," the pediatrician told her with a nod. "He was concerned about the fact that you're not eating properly. He wonders about a reoccurrence of the gastrointestinal problems."

Sighing, she pushed the bowl away and took a couple of sips of juice. "Can we take this to my study? David's outside but he could come in at any given time."

He nodded. She offered him some coffee but he declined and they made the change of venue. Hutton sat in the armchair and pulled a throw around her shoulders—she was always cold. Anderson sat on the sofa.

"What's up with the eating problem?" Anderson asked her.

Shrugging, Hutton pulled the blanket tighter around herself. "I'm trying to eat, Gage. I look at the food and I feel nauseous. I'm not consciously trying to starve myself. I had half a bowl of farina and I feel like it wants to come back up. I'm barely able to keep liquids down."

"Have you ruled out further problems or complications of the ZES?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"House suggested it," she answered, "but I don't feel pain and there's no bleeding or heartburn. I have a feeling he's not going to leave it alone if I don't start eating, though. He's been checking on me every day. He says I still have an arrhythmia due to my electrolytes—he's been encouraging me to eat potassium rich foods for now. Between him and Linda I have enough worry-warts keeping an eye on me."

"House is a friend. Besides, he doesn't strike me as someone who worries without good reason," the pediatrician told her. "If he thinks there may be a problem there probably is."

Hutton exhaled loudly. "Gage, I don't think the problem is physical. Since this began and if I were my own patient, I would be working from the position that the most likely explanation was a functional one. But I don't know—I mean I can't—I need someone else to tell me because I just don't know and I don't feel I have what it takes in me to figure that out."

Anderson regarded her pensively, frowning, "Did something specific happen to trigger this?"

"Yeah, there was something," she admitted, looking away. "You remember what happened five years ago, just after Marcus died?"

For a moment he appeared uncertain but then his face brightened with understanding. "Uh, yeah. I don't know much, just that you were mugged. Liv, you weren't mugged _again_—?"

"No! No, it wasn't anything as bad as that," she assured him. "I was at the farmer's market with Linda having a lovely time when I noticed this creepy looking guy watching us like a hawk. Linda proceeded to tell me that he was staring at me, not us. I started to get very panicky. He began to follow me from table to table. Linda and I stopped to get coffees and he was still staring. I was a wreck! I sat down on a bench waiting for Linda to bring our drinks once they were made. The guy stared right at me, pointed at me and then at the camera then pretended to lick the camera in a sexual manner. That's all it took to start a panic attack."

"Liv, I think it was a natural reaction," Anderson told her, but he was frowning with concern. "Being mugged is a traumatic experience. Being stalked was bound to elicit a response. But you're shaking like a leaf right now and the mugging was years ago. There's something you're not telling me."

She looked at her colleague and friend and swallowed hard, feeling every hair on her body begin to stand on end. The flashes of memory took over, blinding her from the real world so all she saw was the past in bits and pieces like an old reel to reel film that had been broken in several places and spliced back together with a few portions missing. _She is in that dark, nearly empty mall parking lot again, clutching her purse closely to her body as she approaches her car. She opens the driver's side door, then she's seated behind the wheel with her seatbelt done up. She puts the key into the car's ignition and turns it. Two gloved hands appear out of nowhere and cover her face. She struggles, trying to pry the hands off, screaming in terror. She manages to remove one hand but she has no time to celebrate that because it is back, only it holds a hunting knife, honed razor sharp and gleaming in the light coming off of the dashboard. Said knife presses against her throat. The tip is stabbed into the flesh under her chin painfully as a silent threat. She feels the blood drip and trickle along the surface of her skin. _

_Suddenly she's__ being slammed against the asphalt, her head hitting hard, stunning her for a few seconds. She tries to fight him off but he's strong and heavy and determined. His fetid breath nearly makes her vomit. He's looking down at her like a starving wolf ready to devour her. He tells her that if she quits fighting she'll enjoy it more. Hutton spits in his face and the knife appears again…nylon bindings restrain her hands and feet and a filthy rag is stuffed deep into her mouth, gagging her. A knife cuts her shirt off, cold hands pull her skirt off and tear at her hosiery and underwear. Gravel digs into her back like tiny little daggers, her wrists are raw and bleeding from fighting the ties. Tears roll down her cheeks as he removes his gloves and he runs his bare hands up her inner thighs, soft as a caress; then he forces her legs apart. Her heart is beating so fast and hard she fears that it will arrest. He enters her slowly and gently, which only makes it worse than if he had rammed into her viciously, tearing and bruising._

_He whispers soothing and affectionate words that are like the foulest language to her and caresses her face and neck almost lovingly as he slowly moves in and out of her. He tells her that she's beautiful and he will make her feel so good…she stiffens her entire body and fights him as much as she can, her mind and emotions are confused, and receiving mixed signals. Her brain is screaming no over and over again but her vagina is reacting favorably to the stimulation and her arousal builds, betraying her. She tries to block out the pleasurable sensations but her mind isn't merciful and she finds herself nearing climax as her pelvis moves involuntarily to meet his thrusts. She hates her body and herself for actually finding pleasure in this. He comes, then offers to bring her to climax. She screams silently as he manually works on her. Tears blind her and when her body peaks she dies a little inside. He gets up, pulls up his zipper, apologizes, takes her car and leaves her lying in the alley…_

"—Liv!" she heard as she came out of the flashback. Anderson was squatting in front of her chair, his hands on her shoulders as if he was holding her up. His eyes searched hers for some sign that she had returned to the present. Hutton blinked a couple of times and then realized that her face was covered in tears and her body was shaking uncontrollably. It took her a moment or two longer to realize what had happened.

Anderson sighed quietly in relief when she met his gaze.

"I lost it," she said in a small voice, "didn't I?"

He nodded somberly. "You weren't just mugged, were you?" he asked her gently.

Hutton couldn't meet his eyes. This was not the way she wanted to appear in front of him—weak and pathetic—but she couldn't help it.

"Liv," Anderson said softly, pulling a handkerchief out of his suit pocket and with a soft touch wiped the tears from her face. "You can't deal with this on your own."

She shrugged and then nodded. "I know. I just wish I wasn't so weak and stupid."

The pediatrician frowned at her description of herself. He lifted his chin to force her to look at him. "You're anything but weak and stupid. You're one of the strongest women I know."

"I'm a good actress," the psychiatrist told him quietly.

"No," he told her with a fond smile, "You're not."

They stared at each other for a moment before Anderson leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on her lips. It lingered and when he pulled away, his eyes nervously searched her for an indication that he'd gone too far. Hutton was stunned. Her lips felt like they were burning where his had met them. Was it possible? But what about his girlfriend?

_Who cares?_ she thought as she lifted her hand and rested it on the back of his neck then pulled him into a deeper kiss. He didn't resist; instead he wrapped his arms around her and participated more than willingly.

**(~*~)**

After talking (and kissing) a little longer, Anderson reluctantly had to return to the hospital. Hutton walked him out. As she did they passed David sitting on the sofa, holding up a diagramed picture of the female body from some book. He tried to hide it under a cushion when he heard the adults coming. Anderson looked at Hutton and smiled, placing a finger to his lips to 'shh' her. She watched curiously as he approached David and sat down next to him.

"How are you, David?"

The boy picked up the TV remote and clicked it on in a hurry. "Fine, Gage. Just watching TV."

"Mm," the psychiatrist hummed, nodding, "What show?"

"Uh…uh…," David searched as he flipped through the channels trying to find an answer for him.

"I don't know about you, but I think that diagram you were studying is much more interesting than what is on TV."

David's face flushed and he looked sideways at the man. "You saw?"

"I saw." Anderson told him with a nod. "Care to show me the book? It looked like a text book."

Pulling the book out from under the sofa cushions he handed it to the pediatrician saying, "It's a book Dr. House lent to Steph to study from. She says he's going to help her with her project for Science Camp but she has to do a lot of medical research and studying first. She's been going over to his place after camp and working on the project. They let me sit in and watch as long as I kept my trap shut. It was boring, though. All he did was name diseases and ask her to tell him the common symptoms, I think he called them. She actually did pretty good—he only snapped at her twice yesterday."

Anderson looked over David's shoulder at Hutton, raising a questioning eyebrow. The psychiatrist shrugged and smiled back. "Stephania said House is helping her develop a project along the theme of diagnostic medicine. He convinced her that psychiatry was 'boring pseudo-science'. She said he's going to make her a better diagnostician than her personal doctor but that she has to go to medical school before he'll hire her onto his team. She's very enthusiastic about it but he is working her like a dog. One thing about it—she'll ace biology and chemistry next year at this rate."

A smile played on Anderson's lips. "House is teaching her how to do what he does?" he asked incredulously.

Hutton nodded, amused by his reaction. She had to admit she had been a little astounded when her daughter had come to her and excitedly told her about it.

"Steph says that he's a better teacher than her biology teacher last semester," Hutton told him.

"He tells the coolest stories about patients he's treated," David cut in, "like the man who came into the free clinic that his boss, the wicked witch of Princeton, made him work in. The moron had shoved a crochet hook, whatever that is, up his penis trying to get the engagement ring he'd hidden in there out then got the hook stuck, too. The guy had to hide it there so that his girlfriend, who was snoopy, wouldn't find it. Dr. House managed to get the ring out by—"

"Ah, David," Hutton interrupted, "I don't think Gage wants to hear about that. Why don't you return that book to Steph's room before she finds out you were in there again without her permission."

"Whatever," the boy said with a sigh and got up off of the sofa. Anderson handed him the book back. David headed for the stairs; Hutton called after him.

"And after you've returned the book stay out of your sister's room," she said. "I've given her permission to torture you if she catches you in there again."

Once David was out of earshot his mother began to laugh. "Oh my," Hutton said between laughs, "I think I'm going to have to talk to House about the kind of stories he tells my ten-year-old son."

"From the way David was describing it, I don't think he's too scarred by it," Anderson told her, rising from the sofa. "I'm simply surprised that House is interacting with the kids like he is. This is a good sign for him, isn't it?"

"You know what else is a good sign?" Hutton asked. "He's dating someone and from talking to him he feels quite positive about it so far."

"Who's he dating? Do I know her?" he asked her.

"You know _him_ quite well," she answered. "Someone else you know from St. Luke's. I guess it's okay to tell you; Linda and Gary know. He's dating Justin Clee."

Looking surprised, he responded, "Justin? Wow. I guess I just assumed House was straight."

"Well," Hutton responded, "you know what they say about assumptions."

They were at the door now.

"You're right," he admitted sheepishly. They paused a moment just to look at each other with dopey little smiles. Finally Anderson closed the distance between them, drew her into an embrace and kissed her passionately which she gladly reciprocated. When they parted he murmured to her, "Call Nolan, set up some appointments."

She nodded. "I will."

Anderson smiled, kissed her again on the lips. "I'll call you later," he promised her and then left. She shut the door behind him.

As soon as Hutton was certain he was out of earshot she squealed like teenager, did a little happy dance and went to the living room where she flopped onto the sofa. A smile warmed her face. She hoped Bonnar's patient had those babies quickly because she couldn't wait to tell her best friend what had happened.

Bonnar didn't return until nearly six o'clock. Hutton, who was fixing supper with Stephania, went to greet her all excited with her news but as soon as she saw Bonnar's long, drawn features her smile disappeared.

"Hey," she asked, concerned, "what happened?"

Tiredly the OB/GYN hung up her light jacket and then went to sit down on the sofa. The psychiatrist joined her. She took the other woman's hands in hers. Bonnar looked at her and sighed.

"By the time I got to the hospital, the larger twin had already entered the birth canal breach and placenta previa which made a caesarian section very risky," the OB/GYN told her, "but it was less risky than a vaginal delivery. Fetal heartbeats were slowing and mom was tachy so we had to hurry if we were going to save the babies and her. She was wheeled into the ER, spinal block in effect and Dad there holding mom's hand. Because of the positioning of the babies in relation to each other we had to birth Baby B first. She was tiny and her lungs weren't fully developed but we had a Pedes team waiting and before I left the hospital I checked on B and she was doing well, all things considered.

"What I had to do next was extract Baby A from the birth canal without harming him or causing Mom to begin to hemorrhage. Things were going well until Mom suffered cardiac arrest. She didn't make it, so my priority became getting baby out as quickly as possible. He was in distress. I got him out, handed him over to the second Pedes team and they were having difficulty stabilizing him and whisked him off to NICU. Dad, of course, is in despair and inconsolable. He eventually allowed two nurses to lead him out of the OR. I was paged soon after and told that Baby A arrested and died. Dad disappeared. Security began to hunt for him but couldn't locate him anywhere in the hospital. Security cameras caught him leaving the hospital and as far as I know he hasn't been found yet but I tell you, Liv, I'm worried that he's going to end up in the morgue. I feel…damnit, I don't _know_ how I feel. This isn't the first time I've lost a patient or baby but seeing the dad that way…"

Hutton pulled her friend into a hug, rubbing her back consolingly. "I'm sorry, Linda. You did everything you could, I'm sure. It sucks but these things happen. Just don't blame yourself, okay?"

Bonnar pulled away and nodded. "I need a good hot shower."

"You go do that. When you're done dinner will be ready and I'll make you a great big mug of chamomile tea," the psychiatrist told her. "I'll tell you some good news then."

Shaking her head, Bonnar smiled weakly and said, "Tell me now, Liv. I need a little good news right about now."

Hutton hesitated and then smiled, nodding. "Okay. I got a visit earlier from Gage."

"That was nice," Linda told her, her smile warming a little. "Did your heart go pitter-patter at the sight of him?"

"More like boom-boom," she told her, positively grinning. "House had called him concerning my recent regression and he came to check to see how I was doing. We talked a little and the next thing I knew…he kissed me."

"What!" Bonnar exclaimed and grinned. "Well don't just sit there! Dish, already!"

Hutton giggled a little and then told her about his visit and the kissing. "I asked him about his girlfriend, Chenise," she told him. "He told me that they parted ways because they had opposing values they couldn't reconcile. They haven't been together for three months. She moved to Houston with her job. I asked him what those values were. He told me that he valued his friendship with me and she didn't. Apparently she's had reason to be jealous of me."

"It's about time he dumped that snob!" Bonnar asserted, chuckling. "So, how come he was back at the hospital this afternoon instead of between the sheets with you?"

A flush reached Hutton's cheeks. She tried to give her friend a scowl but simply couldn't.

"Because he's not that kind of man," Hutton replied.

"Even if you're that type of woman," Bonnar teased, laughing.

"That only happened once and it was an aberration," the psychiatrist told her sternly. "I wait until at least the third date."

"Uh, third?" the OB/GYN said doubtfully.

"Okay, second," Hutton admitted. They both burst out laughing.

**Thursday, June 16, 2010; 8:02 P.M.**

House pulled up on his motorcycle out front of Justin's Clee modest California-style bungalow. He was immediately struck with the thought that the house suited its owner. The stucco was made of glass from crushed old-style pop bottles and the color that was most dominant was green from the old 7UP bottles. The trim was stark white and the tiled roof was a terra cotta red. The yard had no flower gardens but rose bushes surrounded the house and honeysuckle bushes perfectly trimmed surrounded the yard like a natural fence and a weeping willow graced the lawn. It stuck out from the other more colonial-styled homes in his neighborhood in that it was colorful and alive as opposed to the grey-toned blues and browns of the others; it was tasteful and bold without being blindingly ostentatious. Just like Justin.

He walked up the walkway to his door and rang the bell. About twenty seconds later the door opened and he faced Justin's smile. The vascular surgeon wore a black T-shirt with the KISS logo on the front and a pair of faded jeans which nicely accentuated his assets without being obscene about it.

"Come on in," Clee told him. "The rest of the band is in the music room."

House stepped into the home which was decorated very much the same way Wilson's loft was: comfortable but elegant and gender neutral all in hues of cocoa, cream and antique copper. He felt Justin grasp his arm and then pull him into an embrace, his mouth caressing the older man's. Eagerly House kissed back, plunging his tongue into his mouth and savoring the taste of the anise lozenge the other man had had just a little while earlier. House placed his hands on Clee's hips then slipped them around to rest on his ass.

Clee pulled back, sighing contentedly. "I'm a fraction of an inch away from kicking the band out so we can be alone."

"Sounds good to me," House murmured, beginning to kiss Clee's neck, moving up to the sensitive spot just below his ear, causing the surgeon's breath to hitch.

From somewhere further in the house a female voice called out, "Justin, quit necking and bring lover boy down already!"

"What the hell?" House said very softly, reluctantly drawing away from Clee's embrace. "'Lover boy'?"

"That's Vera," Clee told him. "She plays the violin, and double bass. Her husband Jeff plays the sax, brass, and sometimes electric guitar. Just humor her. Come, I'll introduce you."

House felt Clee clasp his hand and lead him through the small living room, past the kitchen and down two steps to the sunken family room. Waiting there were five other people, four men and Vera. There was an electric guitar, bass guitar, full drum set, upright piano, tenor saxophone, trombone, trumpet with a mute, violin, and double bass. Everyone looked up when Clee and House entered the room.

"Justin, about time, buddy!" A shorter man with jet black hair and wearing white tee and jeans walked up to House and offered his hand. "Hi, I'm Frank Murphy,"

House held onto Justin's hand as an excuse not to shake.

"This is Dr. Greg House," Clee told him and the others assembled there. "Greg, Frank plays electric guitar." He pointed out the rest of the band. "That's Jeff Olanson and his wife Vera. Jeff pays the sax and the brass instruments. Vera plays strings: the violin and double bass."

Jeff smiled mildly, "Nice to meet you, man."

House nodded. Vera, a buckwheat honey blonde in her thirties smiled as well and nodded. "So Greg, is it then?"

"If you want," he told her, shrugging. "Or just House. Whatever."

Clee moved on to the next man in line. He was around the surgeon's age, House estimated, and had mousy brown hair and brown eyes and an average build. "This is Vince Peters. He plays bass guitar."

"Hey," Vince said to him with a smile as he fiddled with the amp nearest him. The last person in line was a taller man of Indian descent sitting at the piano. He had deep brown hair and pale green eyes.

"This is Dr. Zafar Palliwal. When he's not tickling the ivories for us here he's a professor of History at Penn State," Clee told him.

"Hey," House replied with a nod. He felt somewhat uncomfortable, as he always did around strangers but at least he had Justin to act as a buffer.

"Nice to meet you," Zafar said to him politely; he spoke with a slightly British accent.

"Greg is musician as well," Justin told them. "He plays the acoustic and electric guitars and the piano."

"I can also play the harmonica not too shabbily," House added, earning a surprised look from Justin. The younger man smiled warmly.

"So you work at St. Luke's as well?" Jeff asked.

"I'm starting there next week," House told him. "Right now I'm involved in the creation of my department and I'll be interviewing staff soon."

"What area of medicine?" Vera asked, hands on hips and smiling.

"Diagnostics," was the answer he gave her. "I also have dual specializations in infectious diseases and nephrology."

"Sounds impressive," she said and House had a feeling she had no idea what he had just told her. "I work in the accounting department at St. Luke's. Jeff is an electrical engineer. "Frank is a sculptor and painter and owns his own gallery here in Philly."

"So," Zafar said, standing from the piano, "why don't you show us what you can do?"

House smirked, shaking his head, "I'd be afraid of embarrassing the rest of you."

"Oh ho!" Frank said, raising his eyebrows, "Then you've got to, now."

"I agree," Clee told him, a playful look in his eyes. "You can't make a boast like that and then walk away."

"Over here," Zafar told him, patting the piano bench.

House glared them all and then at Clee who was barely able to repress a smile. He sighed it resignation, rolled his eyes, and walked over to the piano, unbuttoning the cuffs of his button up and rolling them halfway up the lower arms. Zafar went to join the others. House sat down at the instrument and adjusted the position of the bench.

"What do you want me to play?" he asked, looking from face to face.

"'The Lady is a Tramp'," Vera told him. "If you know it."

House hummed and hawed exaggeratedly, scratched his chin, then placed his long fingers onto the keys and began to play the introduction to the requested piece flawlessly and effortlessly, staring at the band members with a smug smirk. He looked at Clee last to find him chuckling quietly and shaking his head. His eyes sparkled with heat which nearly threw the diagnostician off. He had to look away in order to continue without screwing up. To add insult to injury he began to sing the lyrics in his melodic baritone.

"'_She gets too hungry for dinner at eight. She likes the theater and never comes late. She never bothers with people she hates. That's why the lady is a tramp._'"

Jeff picked up his sax, licking the reed a couple of times before joining in, followed by Vera on the double bass. Clee headed to the drums, giving House a wink on his way. The diagnostician smiled slightly at that. Frank, Vince and Zafar sat back to listen like the judges at a talent show.

"'_Doesn't like crapgames with barons or earls. Won't go to Harlem in ermine and pearls,_" House continued to sing. "_Won't dish the dirt with the rest of the girls. That's why the lady is a tramp_.'"

He was thoroughly enjoying himself. Though most of Sinatra's work was a little before his interest in music styles really started to develop House had heard his mother play his albums on the portable crank-up record player they owned as she did her cooking and cleaning and he grew to know and appreciate this particular song from the musical 'Babes in Arms' by Rodgers and Hart. Playing with other quite talented musicians made it even more fun for him.

"'_She likes the free, fresh wind in her hair, life without care. She's broke and it's oke. Hates California, it's cold and it's damp. That's why the lady is a tramp. _

"'_Doesn't like dice games, with sharpies and frauds. Won't go to Harlem, in Lincolns and Fords. Won't dish the dirt with the rest of those broads. That's why the lady is a tramp._'"

The song continued for a while longer and then House gave it a little something extra on the piano for a big finish. "'_That's why the lady, that's why the lady, that's why the lady is a tramp!_'"

House rested his hands on his lap, his blue eyes smiling along with his mouth. He knew he'd impressed Clee's friends and the look he received from the vascular surgeon—admiration and desire combined into one—made him feel _good_. He received applause from them.

"So, so," Zafar told him in mock-seriousness, tilting his flattened hand back and forth in the air. "You're not bad with the others carrying you. A few more years of lessons and you might go somewhere."

"Keep your day job," Vince told him with a grin, earning laughter from the others. House put on his 'most offended' act and ceded the piano to Zafar again, taking a seat in an armchair 'off-stage'.

"You people don't know talent when you hear it," he told them in pseudo-indignation.

"He's cheeky," Vera said, turning to Clee. "I approve."

"Oh, well then," Clee responded sarcastically, "since you approve, Vera, I just might sleep with him tonight. But only if that's okay with you."

"Only if you play well tonight, sweetie," she told him with a grin.

House simply sat very still in his seat, doing nothing to draw more attention to himself. He was a little self-conscious but not because he was ashamed of dating Justin. He simply didn't know these people well enough to feel comfortable about talking about his sex-life unless it was shielded by the protection of heavy sarcasm and he was the one doing the talking.

Raising his hand as if asking for permission to speak House asked snarkily, "I don't remember a woman being elected as God. Of course, if there were an election for that I'd be as likely to vote as I would for the tooth fairy."

He earned a dirty look from Vera but a hearty chuckle from the others, especially her husband. House ignored her scowl. Vera 0, House 1, he tallied silently.

"Okay, okay," Frank said, interrupting. "That's enough horsing around. We have to practice—badly."

For the next hour and a half the band practiced while House watched and listened. Despite Frank's declaration, they were good and he couldn't help but smile a couple of times as they played. During one number that had a particularly challenging drum solo House watched Clee become one with the drums, completing the piece perfectly, as far as House's keen ear could tell. Watching the surgeon let loose was almost as exciting as watching him let go of his inhibitions in bed; House shifted in his seat and laid his cane across his lap at that thought.

As he watched him, House couldn't deny the affection her felt for Clee. The diagnostician was definitely 'in like' with the man with a strong fondness developing. It scared him a little. He wasn't sure if he was ready to care deeply for someone so soon after Wilson. Then again, if he pulled back and ran away from this what would he gain? He'd be back to loneliness and grieving for a love affair that hadn't really had a chance between the oncologist and him. If he knew Wilson, the younger man wouldn't wait long before he sought out prospective future Missus Doctor James Wilson number four. There was no point in fleeing from a relationship with someone else. If part of his fear was the old fear of commitment and trust trap plaguing him again he could overcome it by reminding himself of how old he was getting and how many more opportunities lay ahead for him.

_Go for it!_ he could hear his gut telling him, and who was he to argue with wisdom like that?

After the practice they sat around and had a beer or soda and talked a little. Most of the conversation consisted of questions aimed at House. He fielded most of them well, giving away as little personal information about himself as possible and directing the topic back to music instead of him. Clee was quiet for the most part, allowing the others to interact with House while he listened in. Several times House would exchange glances with the surgeon, who looked just as impatient for everyone to leave as House felt. They all stayed for about a half-an-hour before packing up their instruments and leaving.

"So, what do you think?" Clee asked him as he walked up to House and wrapped his arms around the older man's waist.

"About us or about them?" House asked, also wrapping his arms around Clee.

"Let's start with them," the surgeon told him, smiling a little.

Shrugging, House answered, "They're okay."

"I hope you weren't too uncomfortable around them."

Shaking his head, the diagnostician leaned his head toward Clee's, looking deeply into his eyes. "Not with you around," he replied just before placing a kiss on the younger man's neck. "I thought they'd never leave."

"You're cute when you're horny," Clee told him and then kissed him gently, teasingly on the mouth.

"Then I must be fucking adorable right now," House said against his lips before capturing them with his own. They quickly made their way to the bedroom.

After they had sex, House rested his head on Clee's chest, listening to his heart beating strong and steady. He felt so comfortable there and allowed himself to enjoy it for a while in silence. Eventually he did speak up.

"Justin, are you still awake?"

"Mm, yes." was the sleepy reply.

"Can we talk about something?" House asked amazed that those words were coming out of _his_ mouth. Since when did he have any interest in talking about 'things'? He couldn't remember, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep if he didn't sort something out.

Raking his fingers through the older man's hair, Clee was quick to answer. "Sure. Of course."

House lifted himself off of the other man and pushed himself up and back towards his pillow. He rolled on his side to face Clee and the younger man rolled to his side to face him. House stared into his eyes, feeling drawn into them. He gently cupped the surgeon's face with his hand and brushed his cheekbone with his thumb.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking about my life over the past month or so," the diagnostician began, speaking softly. "I've come to the conclusion that I'm tired of being alone. I want…well, I _need_ something long-term. I'm not getting any younger. I really like you. I'm very fond of you. I was wondering what your thoughts are concerning our relationship."

"Are you asking me if I want to make this relationship exclusive?" Clee asked him. "Do you want to know if this is just a casual fling for me or if I'm hoping this could turn into something lasting?"

Nodding, House remained silent, feeling a little apprehensive of the answer he could receive.

Moving closer to House Clee placed gentle kisses on his eyelids, then his nose, cheeks and chin before answering. "I've already considered us exclusive and as I look at you right now I know that I want to see this go…as far as it can go. You're an extraordinary man, and I'm not just talking about in bed. I want a serious, committed relationship with you, but I won't push you if that's not what you want."

"I want the same thing," House told him quickly before he could second-guess himself and ruin yet another opportunity for happiness. "But I don't like to share with others, especially not you—and I can be possessive and jealous if I think that someone is moving in on my territory. I'll try to reign myself in, but I won't apologize for it."

"Okay," the surgeon agreed, and then kissed him so tenderly that it evoked deep emotion in House. At first he tried to stuff it down but realized that he was only shooting himself in the foot by doing that; so he let it be free and expressed in the way he responded to the kiss.

**A/N 2: I know that there are those of you peeved with me for spending too much time on Hutton and making things get serious between House and Clee when you want House and Wilson to get back together and live happily ever after together…but I did warn you. As for Hutton, I'm focusing on her a little bit because she plays a vital role in House's life and I think she's an interesting OC if I do say so myself. Even on the show there is often a C-story arc going on involving one or more of the supporting characters. I think it adds more to the story as a whole than it does distract attention away from the main character, in this case being House.**

**For those of you wondering about Wilson, don't worry! We're not by any means finished with him yet, but he doesn't appear back for a few months in the timeline of the story. It will make sense why when we get there.**


	40. Chapter 40 Part 3 Ch 6

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **7003

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Six: Wednesday, June 23, 2010; 9:30 A.M.**

He parked his bike in the parking lot of Penn State University Hospital and made his way towards the building, leaning heavily on his cane. His leg had been bothering him more than usual since the previous Saturday, concerning both Hutton and Clee. The vascular surgeon had encouraged House to call his colleague whom had taken over House's case from Clee after the surgery. Dr. Timms had immediately sent him to have his leg scanned in a CT scanner. There hadn't appeared to be any further clotting of any kind, but to be safe House also had had an MRI scan done which confirmed the CT scan results. It had been right after that incident when Clee had dialed up his friend the pain management expert and had handed the phone to House to book an appointment. There had been a cancellation earlier that day for the twenty-third so House had booked it for himself.

Even though House doubted there was anything this pain expert could do to help him he'd followed through and actually had gone to the hospital to see her because he'd promised Clee that he would. The younger man had been awaked Sunday night by House screaming and swearing and grabbing his leg. The diagnostician had been covered in sweat, his heart racing. He'd been suffering for a couple of hours but had managed to keep his agony to himself until it had spiked to a nine at which point he'd been unable to hold back any longer.

The surgeon had seen him at his worst that night; House had been an absolute asshole to him when Clee had done his best to alleviate the pain with little success. He'd taken it in stride, not that he'd enjoyed being snapped at and called every name in the book. After a steaming hot bath House's thigh muscles—what remained of them—began to relax and the pain lowered considerably, Clee sat on the rug next to the tub and gently caressed House's cheek. House had felt like a heel and had tried to apologize but the other man would have nothing of it.

"You were in unbelievable pain," Clee had told him softly. "I can't imagine what it must be like. You don't have to apologize for lashing out. I'm pretty sure I would do the same if I were in your place."

"You're not going to tell me to go to hell and dump my ass?" House had asked him in disbelief.

"No," the other man had told him before leaning towards him and kissing him tenderly. "You don't have to worry about that. You do, however, have to call Timms and have the leg scanned, just to be on the safe side."

House managed to find Dr. Ruth VanLuten's office easily enough. He walked up to her receptionist's desk and said to the young woman, "Dr. House to see Dr. VanLuten."

The receptionist looked up and smiled then checked the appointment calendar on her computer before nodding at him. "Thank you, Doctor. I'll let her know you've arrived. Why don't you have a seat and I'll call you when she's ready to see you."

He nodded and took a seat in the small waiting area. Absently House rubbed at his leg. It wasn't more than two minutes before a tall, slender, flaxen-haired woman in her mid-forties wearing a lab coat emerged from a doorway and looked straight at him with soft blue-green eyes.

"Dr. House?" she called with a small smile, "Come on in."

House rose to his feet slowly, wincing a little, and followed her into her office. She headed for her desk and gestured to a chair before it. "It's nice to meet you, Doctor," she told him as they both sat. "Your reputation precedes you." She spoke with a hint of an accent; she wasn't born American.

"Which one?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "The 'fascinating, enigmatic genius diagnostician' reputation or the 'misanthropic, hateful son of a bitch' one?"

"Both, to be honest," she told him as her fingers played across the keyboard of her computer and then she took the mouse and clicked away. "Ah, here we are. Dr. Timms kindly sent a digitized version of your chart to me. I was looking at the history he provided, but I wanted to hear from you about it. Tell me about the history of your pain and any other details you feel are pertinent."

"I'm pretty certain that this visit is a waste of time for both of us," House informed her.

"Oh? And why do you say that?" VanLuten asked curiously.

"The only thing that has ever helped alleviate my leg pain is opiates," House told her. "I've tried non-narcotic meds and they haven't worked. I've tried physiotherapy, acupuncture, acupressure, therapeutic massage—basically, I've tried pretty much everything without permanent success. I even tried Ketamine. I was pain-free for a few months and then the pain came back. My best friend was convinced that I suffered from conversion disorder and didn't take it seriously. I spent almost a year in psychotherapy and there was no appreciable change. Currently I'm using prescription-strength ibuprofen, hot baths, and massage, and even with that my average pain level on the ten-scale is a four. In the last seven days I had breakthrough pain that spiked easily to a nine."

"That is certainly something to be concerned about," she agreed. "Dr. House, while it isn't always possible to completely eliminate chronic pain of that severity, there is no reason why you should be forced to experience pain of that magnitude. Now, to be able to determine the extent to which your pain can be managed I need to understand your pain management history."

House related to her the pain he was left with following the infarction and the months of agonizing therapy he went through following that. He explained that he'd been prescribed Vicodin which had proven to be the most effective at first but had lost its effectiveness over the years due to drug tolerance and had become addicted to it. He related what happened with his opiate-induced psychosis that landed him in Mayfield and his struggle to remain clean when the pain gets to be at its worst and all he has to take for it is Ibuprofen.

VanLuten listened attentively as he related his story from the perspective of a pain sufferer and physician.

"Well, as I'm certain you know, Vicodin should only have been used short term in the days immediately following your surgery and during your rehabilitation," she told him, "For long term management Vicodin was not only inadequate but dangerous as well. There were methods that could have been employed to effectively control your pain and increase your quality of life. When long-term chronic pain is mismanaged and undertreated it can result in unnecessary and intensified suffering. That will make our job a little more difficult now, but it's nothing we can't deal with, I assure you. I understand that you want to remain opiate-free both for yourself and in compliance with your release agreement with your psychiatrist. I applaud you for that. However, I think you have an improper understanding of what addiction is and isn't and seem to lack any understanding at all in the areas of dependency versus addiction and pseudo-addiction versus addiction.

"From what I've read in your chart and what you've told me here today, I am not convinced that you were ever addicted to opiates. Before you object and try to correct me allow me to explain my reasoning first." She paused briefly to breathe and gather her thoughts. House listened, trying to keep an open mind in spite of his doubts.

"There is no doubt that your body developed a tolerance to the Vicodin as well as a dependency on it but that doesn't mean you were addicted. Addiction is a very complicated disease. Many people such as yourself are misdiagnosed as being addicted to a drug when in actual fact what you are experiencing and your doctors and therapists have been witnessing is more akin to what is called pseudoaddiction."

"What is pseudoaddiction?" the diagnostician demanded. "I'm behind in my required reading."

Smiling, VanLuten nodded and explained, "The term pseudoaddiction was first coined in nineteen-eighty-nine to describe an iatrogenic syndrome that is the result of poorly treated chronic pain. A patient with pseudoaddiction displays behaviors consistent with behaviors found in individuals who are addicted to opiod medications but the patient isn't really addicted. Behaviors that fall under this category include physical symptoms of pain like grimacing, moaning, spasming with increasing requests for pain relievers. These behaviors are misinterpreted by health care providers as indicators of addiction when in reality they are signs of inadequately treated pain.

"In your case, you were being treated for moderate to severe chronic non-malignant pain with the wrong kind of medication in inadequate dosages. Your body, over time, developed a dependence on the Vicodin so you would undergo withdrawal symptoms if you stopped taking the drug suddenly and you developed a tolerance for it so over time you needed more and more of it to have the same effect it previously had at lower dosages. All very normal, I assure you. Because of the dangers of Vicodin you couldn't take enough of the drug at any one time to adequately treat the pain without risking toxicity to your liver and kidneys.

"You would begin asking for more of it from your primary care physician and at greater frequency. If you felt that your supply was going to be cut off and you knew the kind of pain you'd be in without it you would hoard and hide the drug to ensure you always had a supply in case of an emergency—not to feed the dependency per se but to prevent the overwhelming pain compounded by withdrawal.

"Because the Vicodin was inadequate to your need you would be irritable and lash out as a natural reaction to the pain. However, if another means was found to alleviate your suffering and you didn't have to take the Vicodin anymore you were easily weaned off of the opiod without the obsessive behavior of a true addict—case in point, the period of time following the Ketamine treatment when you remained pain free. Your hallucinations and delusions of a year ago were not due to addiction but rather toxic levels of an inadequate drug in your system. Are you beginning to see the distinction I'm making?"

House did, and it was like a light bulb had been turned on in his mind. It made perfect sense when he looked at it from this new perspective. Wilson and Cuddy had mistaken his behaviors as those of an addict instead of symptoms of an individual receiving inadequate treatment. There was one thing, however, that caused him hesitation in accepting her theory completely.

"My pain would be worse under times of emotional stress," he pointed out, absently rubbing his thigh. "I would take the Vicodin to alleviate both types of pain."

VanLuten nodded as if she had expected this objection. "That's also normal behavior. Pain is pain and untreated long-term chronic pain is infamous for breeding and supporting clinical depression. Depression, in return, will aggravate any pain you are already experiencing. Likewise, a person's ability to tolerate pain is greatly reduced in times of emotional or physical stress. The lowering of one's pain tolerance can make it seem like the pain is worse than it really is. If you had been adequately treated for your pain from the start it is highly unlikely that the depression would have taken hold of you the way it had. What depression existed unrelated to your pain could have been treated with psychotherapy and antidepressants in tolerable dosages if necessary. There are many factors involved in the proper management of pain.

"I'm suggesting that a properly managed regimen of opiod medications given in proper doses at reasonable intervals closely monitored and in conjunction with other physical and psychological approaches would almost certainly be possible without affecting your ability to think and function in a healthy way in your job and your everyday life outside of work."

Pondering that for a few moments House presented her with another problem. "What about my 'no mind-altering or addictive drug' clause of my discharge agreement with my therapists? I'm required to be drug tested at regular intervals. I don't know if they would be ready to accept my return to opiates."

"Sometimes that can be an issue," the specialist acknowledged with understanding. "However, most psychiatrists are at least vaguely aware of the difference between actual addiction and pseudoaddiction. Likewise, I can contact them myself to advise them on my diagnosis and suggested treatment regimen and we as health professionals can work together to come to an agreement on adequate treatment. I've had many patients mistakenly diagnosed with addiction that I've been able to treat successfully with the cooperation of their therapists. Of course I would need you to sign a release allowing me to disclose your personal treatment recommendations to them. Likewise, if you have any restriction placed upon you with the state licensing board or your current place of employment I can also be in contact with them concerning your treatment. It's up to you at this point, Doctor."

House was almost convinced, but to be convinced would mean he would have to entertain the idea of hope. In his past experience, hoping for something almost always ended up biting him in the ass. Still, much had changed in his life since the last time he'd hoped for something, most of it for the better. It was possible that this would end up being a good thing. Even if Dr. VanLuten was unable to do anything with his leg pain he'd be no worse off than he was now. He was concerned about the psychosis returning, but if he was being closely monitored for behavioral changes as well as having levels of the drug in his body regularly checked it was possible he wouldn't end up the same way as before. He was pretty certain Hutton would come around on the opiate issue if she was presented the recommendation from the pain management specialist instead of him. Nolan, however, was another thing. He had no idea how he would respond to the idea.

_Eh, fuck him_, House told himself, thinking about Clee's story of Charlie's experience with the psychiatrist as well as his own. He was tired of the pain—it was literally killing him slowly but surely. He had to think about his own well-being. He had people depending upon him; there were people who actually cared about him and needed him to do what he had to do to keep himself around for as long as possible. House had to smile slightly at that thought. For a very long time he hadn't cared about what happened to him or how it would affect the people around him but somewhere along the way that had changed, as had so many other things.

Giving VanLuten a curt nod he told her, "Let's do it."

**Wednesday, June 23, 2010; 12:58 P.M.**

The smell of fresh paint was heavy in the air of his new office. House stood in the doorway of the room assigned to him as his own at St. Luke's Presbyterian Hospital. It was built; the drywall was up, primed and painted a light mushroom color. After the painting was completed the carpet would be installed. It was to be a low pile Berber, easy to maintain and to walk on with a cane and limp. House had been given a choice of colors to choose from but had had no interest in colors and patterns and other things like that. He'd closed his eyes and pointed at a color, not even paying attention to what it turned out to be. The furniture, however, was another thing. He'd had an option of going with hospital standard or taking the money budgeted and choosing his own. He'd chosen to go with option B but hadn't yet done any shopping—he hated shopping. He figured he'd buy online and would have either Hutton or Clee help him to pick it out.

He heard footsteps behind him and looked over his shoulder. Chase was approaching, carrying a stack of CVs about ten inches deep. House sighed. Over the past four days Chase had interviewed applicants for the diagnostics department and had eliminated a vast majority of them right off the bat after reading the CVs. Then he did the initial interviews and eliminated about seventy-five percent of those he'd had left. The remaining twenty-five percent were to be interviewed by House with Chase in attendance. Out of thirty-five applicants they would be selecting six. Both House's and Chase's teams would be comprised of three doctors plus their leader. After they were selected they would be interviewed by Dr. Roth after which the chief administrator would give his final approval. It really was a rubber stamp; Roth had already told House that he could hire whomever he chose so long as the basic employee qualifications were met. In fact, Roth had already given him more autonomy and authority over his developing department than Cuddy ever had the entire time the diagnostician had worked for her.

"I thought you were going to weed through the applications," House said, scowling first at the pile and then at Chase. He knew very well that his assistant department head had done so but he needed an excuse to give him a hard time. He couldn't allow the intensivist to become complacent and lazy as he had a tendency to be. House knew that Chase did his best work when he was on the younger doctor's case

"This is the _result_ of the weeding," Chase told him, frowning. "Took me three bloody days to get through them all. There's a waiting room full of them outside of conference room six waiting to be interviewed by _der Fuhrer_ himself."

House exhaled dramatically, rolling his eyes. "Okay, fine! By the looks of it if I want something done right I'll have to do it myself. By the way, I fancy myself more of an _Il Duce_ type."

"What, you don't want to go all the way with _Emperor_ House?" Chase retorted sarcastically as they walked side by side down the hospital corridor toward the conference room.

"What was that?" said older doctor asked, already knowing exactly what he'd said. "You want me to go all the way with you? Is that what you said? Sorry, I'm already spoken for. You snooze, you lose."

"I've never been so glad to lose in my life," the intensivist responded, smirking. "Dating already? When did you find the opportunity to meet anyone since you moved here?"

"I don't try to find opportunities," House told him smugly. "They find me."

"_Right_," Chase said as if humoring him, "Just watch out for the men with _butterfly nets_ trying to find you."

"You mean Nathan and Harold?" House asked, dead-pan. "You can't miss them; they're giants, both of them, one black and the other Japanese. They really stand out in a crowd."

House watched Chase out of the corner of his eye, resisting the urge to smile. The younger doctor had no idea whether to believe him or not. In fact, he should. They were the two orderlies who had restrained him long enough for the needle of Thorazine he'd received after he'd beat in the safety glass surrounding the nurse's station just a few weeks ago.

Chase just shook his head and chose to remain silent. His discomfort served him right, House decided, for making such an insensitive remark to a former asylum resident.

They arrived at the conference room to find a small waiting area outside of it full of physicians waiting to be interviewed to work for him. When he was shunned in every other area of his life House knew that he was well respected for his medical knowledge and skill and there were plenty of doctors who would do just about anything to work for and learn from him. The problem was finding ones suitable enough for the positions. Taub and Thirteen (as could have Kutner) knew just how challenging competing to be on House's team could be. They looked up expectantly when they saw Dr. Chase and the older, grizzled, limping doctor with him approaching them. Most of them had heard the rumors and stories behind the enigmatic Dr. Gregory House and were curious to see if what they had been told about the man was true.

House ignored their stares and pretended they weren't there as he and Chase walked past them and into the conference room. He didn't care what they thought about him; as far as he was concerned they were better off focusing on what _he_ thought about _them_.

The conference room was big enough for an oval table with an obsidian-colored glass table top long enough to accommodate ten people seated in black leather upholstered swivel chairs. On the back wall was a large white smart-board that was operated with the computer interface built into the table at one end. There were various colored smart-markers for use on the board as well. On the long side wall were light boxes for viewing radiology films and a large plasma television-slash-computer monitor. A fancy telephone with a land line sat on the table for use during conference calls, no doubt. House looked around appreciatively. Either the donors to St. Luke's were much more generous or the finance committee was more efficient that at Princeton-Plainsboro.

"Cool," House said out loud before he realized he'd done so.

"I'll say," Chase agreed with a nod and smirk. "Please tell me we get a couple of these in Diagnostics."

"I hope so," House said with a nod. Chase set the files down on the table in front of House's chosen spot at the control end. Chase chose the seat to his right. The older doctor sat down and swiveled in his chair a bit, getting comfortable.

"Well, let's get this over with," House said grimly. Chase picked up the CV on the top of the pile and headed for the door; there was a rapid knock on the other side before the door opened carefully to admit a young man in his mid-twenties carrying a tray with a coffee carafe, glass pitcher of water, two coffee mugs, two stout glasses, cream dispenser, sugar bowl and teaspoons.

"Excuse me, Dr. House?" he said politely.

"If that coffee is for him then he's me," House said, nearly salivating. He'd forgotten to grab a coffee from the cafeteria before this.

"I'm Kirkland," the brunet announced. He wore a pressed white dress shirt, red tie and black dress pants. "Human resources assigned me to act as your assistant until you've had the opportunity to hire one for yourself. I thought you and Dr. Chase might like some coffee before you begin the interviews."

House blinked, slightly stunned. He hadn't been expecting this when Roth's P.A. had suggested she would contact Human Resources to assign him an assistant. House had never been keen on having one.

"Uh, great," House managed to say, the corners of his mouth turning upward faintly. Kirkland set the tray down at the spot to House's left. He began to pour the delicious smelling brew into a mug.

"How do you take your coffee, Doctor?" Kirkland asked, looking to House.

"Black, extra sweet," the diagnostician replied, looking sideways at Chase. The younger doctor was just as pleasantly surprised as he was and shrugged back at his employer. Kirkland fixed House's coffee and placed the mug on a napkin in front of him. He looked up at Chase.

"And you, doctor?" the assistant asked.

"Uh, yeah, thanks, um…cream and one sugar would be great," the Australian told him, unaccustomed to such service.

"Of course," Kirkland said, fixed his coffee and set it in front of him. "Do you need anything for the interview—paper, pens?"

"We're fine," House told him, nodding.

"Good," his P.A. told him. "Dr. Chase, if you have a master list I can take with me I can send in the applicants when you want them. I'll be working on paperwork at the desk just outside. The number to page me is star-one-one on the phone."

The assistant Head of Diagnostics found a printout and handed it to him.

"Very good," Kirkland told him. "If there's nothing more you need from me, shall I send in the first applicant on my way out?"

House couldn't resist smirking in amusement. He answered, "Do."

With a nod the P.A. left the room, leaving the coffee behind. House looked at Chase, doing his best not to smile. "I really hate Cuddy right now," he told the intensivist. Chase didn't even try to keep himself from chuckling.

"Well, Toto, I don't think we're in Princeton anymore," Chase declared, earning a smirk from the older doctor.

**(~*~)**

For the rest of the afternoon and on into the early evening they interviewed candidates. At six-thirty they called it a day but not before House had cajoled, demoralized, tormented, humiliated and infuriated the twenty candidates they had interviewed that day. For the most part Chase had agreed with his boss and found the way he'd toyed with the interviewees somewhat amusing, but he hadn't forgotten what it was like to be on the other side of the table as the diagnostician and he still wasn't safe from the stinging barbs House was capable of shooting his way. In the end, however, he knew he was a better doctor for it. Perhaps that's why he could say that Gregory House could be a complete asshole at times but he respected and liked the man more than he ever had his own father.

Perhaps that's why Chase had chosen joining House's team again over running away from real life with Cameron. He had chosen wisely, he realized when he looked back at that situation.

**(~*~)**

House made his way slowly towards the exit. St. Luke's had noticeably geared down when shift change occurred at five o'clock. There were a few visitors coming and going but not in the numbers there usually were. Things were quieter, including the volume at which staff members spoke to each other. House's cane hitting the floor clicked loudly in the open lobby. He was exhausted and all he wanted to do was to go home, eat and go to bed. He was actually glad that Clee was on call because he simply didn't have enough energy left to share with someone else. As he walked out the doors and towards the employee lot he felt his phone vibrate and stopped to look at the call display before he decided whether or not to answer.

It was the lawyer he'd hired to handle his lawsuit against Cuddy and Princeton-Plainsboro. The doctor promptly answered.

"House," he said into the phone, foregoing pleasantries.

"Dr. House, hello! This is Vince Elliott," the lawyer greeted him in an upbeat manner.

"Yeah," House responded, continuing to walk towards his motorcycle, "What can I do for you?"

"I'm calling to catch you up on some new developments in your lawsuit," Elliott told him. "First of all, the paperwork has all been filed with the court and there will be a preliminary meeting with the judge in chambers on July fourteenth at ten in the morning. The lawyers for both sides will meet with judge to present their reasons why the case should or should not be heard by the court. Of course, Princeton-Plainsboro's lawyers will try to convince the judge that we have no justifiable reason to be suing the hospital in the first place, but don't be concerned about that. The law is on our side and there are several instances where the hospital's behavior warrants our case. Also the judge will make certain that discovery takes place—that is, that both sides, but in particular the plaintiffs, provide relevant evidence to the other side before the trial begins so that the defense has the opportunity to build a case on what evidence and knowledge is available. While it's your right to be there, Dr. House, it's not required. Usually only the lawyers attend this meeting but the choice is up to you. It's all pretty dry legal matters. The meeting I think is important for you to attend with me is the one called by the hospital lawyers to discuss the lawsuit and grievances outside of formal legal proceedings."

House frowned at that. He didn't want to have to return to Princeton-Plainsboro for any reason. Having to meet with the hospital's jackals, board members and possibly Cuddy was not his idea of a fun time.

"What is the purpose of this little _soiree_?" he demanded.

"Usually, it's the hope of the large corporation to frighten the plaintiff with all of its big name lawyers and money into dropping the case or accepting a pittance of a settlement in exchange for signing a non-disclosure agreement that forbids the plaintiff from ever releasing to anybody the settlement agreement and the evidence against the hospital. In your case, Dr. House, the evidence against the hospital and Dr. Cuddy is so overwhelming that there might be criminal charges made based on the information from the lawsuit. The last thing the hospital wants is to attract the attention of the police and district attorney so they are better off making certain this case never makes it to court. That gives us the tactical advantage. They will likely try to get you to accept a settlement agreement. It will be your choice, of course, but I will be there to advise you in what I feel is your best interest. It's essential that you be at this particular meeting."

House reached his bike, which really wasn't far from the building; he was granted a parking space for the disabled without having to beg or bargain for one. He sighed silently. It appeared that this was going to be unavoidable. He knew it could get pretty nasty.

"When is this?" the diagnostician asked him.

"They want to meet next week, June the thirtieth at eleven a.m. at Princeton-Plainsboro," Elliott answered.

"No can do," House told him, shaking his head even though he knew that the lawyer couldn't see him. "I have an appointment with a specialist that day. I couldn't make it before four and that's if traffic cooperates."

"No problem," Elliott assured him. "I get back to them on that. If they're as worried as I think they are they'll be ready to accommodate. I'll get back to you on the day and time."

"Right," House responded before hanging up. Now he felt even more ready to go to bed. His leg hurt as did his head. He and Chase had managed to narrow down the candidates to five out of the twenty that day. There were fifteen more to be interviewed the next day. He hoped that those who showed up tomorrow weren't as stupid as most of the candidates had been earlier, but somehow he doubted it. Now he had to face the morons back in Princeton again.

House had a thought that made him smile a little as he put on his helmet and tightened the chin strap. Except for the lack of knowledge Stephania Hutton was proving herself to be a natural at thinking outside of the box and thinking divergently. He'd only been half-joking when he'd said that she had to finish med school before he would hire her. If she had been among those candidates he and Chase had seen earlier he had little doubt that he would have put her name at the top of the list. One thing was certain; House was going to do his best to convince her to go into pre-med after high school. The world of medicine, in his opinion, would benefit if she did, and House rarely said anything like that of anyone. Of course, he would never let the fifteen-going -on-sixteen-year old know that.

The ride home was uneventful but with every mile closer to his destination House grew more tired and actually had to stop by the side of the road, get off the bike and walk around it a few times to wake himself up before he could safely continue on home.

When he drove up the main driveway that forked, one direction to Hutton's house and the other direction to his place, he noticed a police car sitting in Hutton's driveway and every light in that house was on. He frowned. Trying to tell himself to mind his own business and go home House's curiosity was too strong. He took the gravel way to Hutton's abode and parked next to the squad car.

He took off his helmet and left it with the bike. Limping to the front door he knocked firmly on the oak barrier. Less than five seconds passed before the door opened. Bonnar stood there with a sober expression on her face.

"House," she said, stepping aside to give him space to enter, "come in here."

He stepped inside, looking at the OB/GYN quizzically. "What's with the cops?" the diagnostician asked quietly, frowning. He had never particularly liked cops; they were too much like Marines in mentality. After his run-in with Detective Tritter he'd grown even more disenchanted and distrusting of them. At the dining room table two deputy sheriffs sat talking to both Hutton and Stephania; the teenager looked like she had been crying shortly before he had arrived and Hutton's eyes were misty. House had a bad feeling about this.

"She was riding her horse in the ditch along the road when a car pulled up and drove slowly alongside her," Bonnar told him, whispering. "The guy inside rolled the window down and started asking her directions. She said he had a map in his hands and he asked her if she would dismount for a moment to help him figure it out."

"Tell me she didn't," House murmured, knowing better. He wasn't aware of the fact that his hands were clenched tightly, the right one white-knuckled as he squeezed the handle of his cane.

"Wish I could," Bonnar answered grimly. "She got down and he parked the car, walked around the front of it, and stood right next to her, talking to her about the map. That child is so trusting—too trusting. He grabbed her and tried to throw her into his car. She fought and screamed…" Bonnar's voice trailed off. She was near tears. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly she continued, "He got her into the backseat and tried tying her up but she continued to fight and managed to kick him in the gut. She knocked the wind out of him and was able to get to her horse and escaped by riding away. She came galloping into the yard crying and wailing."

House was astounded by what he was hearing. Anger and fear rose up in him, confusing him a little. Seeing Stephania sitting in the other room with her mother and the cops was a relief. What were these feelings? He felt like he wanted to find the bastard and beat the shit out of him but he also wanted to comfort her and her mother. It was a desire to protect someone other than himself. He'd felt that in powerful ways before for Wilson but otherwise had been able to repress such emotional responses. First Hutton was stalked and now her daughter was attacked—in the middle of the country, no less! If a young woman couldn't feel safe going on a horseback ride out here, where the hell could she? She was a ridiculous little fool for getting off the horse in the first place, but the asshole who tried to abduct her with the possible intention of doing any number of unthinkable things to her needed to be caught and castrated; House was ready to volunteer to perform the procedure—with a rusty steak knife and no anesthesia.

The cops rose from the dining room table and shook Hutton's hand. The senior officer then rested a hand on Stephania's shoulder, said something that brought a small smile to her face; they walked towards the door. One of them looked at House suspiciously as they passed him and made their way out. Shrugging it off the diagnostician walked over to the dining room. Stephania saw him first. She nearly jumped out of her chair and wrapped her arms around House's waist in a bear hug. She began to sob into his chest. Her whole body was trembling.

House stiffened at this unexpected event, his eyes widening. He looked at Hutton. She shrugged with a sad smile. Uncertain what the appropriate response to Stephania was, he went with his gut and slowly hugged her, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. When the girl's hug tightened even more House sighed and pulled her a little closer, that protectiveness kicking in. He felt outraged that some pervert would try to hurt her.

"Dr. House," she whimpered into his leather jacket, "I'm sorry!"

Frowning in confusion, he shook his head and asked, "For what?"

"For being stupid and trusting someone I didn't know," she answered. "You've been telling me all week not to trust what a patient tells you because they are probably lying about something and that everybody lies."

Sighing, House realized that a beautiful part of the girl—her trusting nature—had been stolen from her and she would never retrieve it. At least she learned that without ending up seriously hurt or even killed. He felt tongue-tied, not knowing the words to say that would comfort her.

Clearing his throat House ventured, "Going up to a total stranger that way was foolish," he told her quietly. "Having a generous heart isn't stupid but indiscriminate generosity is." He released his hug and took her gently by the forearms, pushing her away just far enough to be able to look in her red and puffy eyes. "Making certain that you're safe before you help others is what's most important. You can't help people who genuinely deserve it if you're dead."

She nodded, sniffling. "I know."

He nodded and brushed a tear off of her cheek with the back of his hand. "Good. If he shows his face around here again I'll give him a prostate exam with my cane."

Stephania began to giggle at that, wiping her tears away with her hands.

"Now go take a hot bath and put those smelly bath beads or salts you women like into it," he told her, smirking, "'cause you stink."

"You should talk," she told him, screwing up her nose in distaste.

"This is not _stink_," he defended. "This virile manly aroma is called _musk_. Chicks love it."

"Uh, _wrong_. Maybe that's why you're dating Uncle Justin and not a chick," she quipped before turning and jogging upstairs.

Disgruntled, House looked over at Hutton, who was giggling into her hand. He could hear Bonnar laugh as she approached Hutton and him.

"Someone should call the fire department," the OB/GYN told them, sitting down at the table next to Hutton, "because someone just burned a House."

The diagnostician scowled at her. "Ha ha. Was Steph able to give that cop a good description of the asshole?"

Hutton's smile began to dissolve into a frown. "Yes. He is a thirtyish man of average height and build with brown hair and a beard without a moustache. Just like my stalker at the farmer's market. When I heard that my blood ran cold. Quite frankly I'm scared. Who the hell _is_ that guy and how did he just happen to drive along this country road while my daughter was out riding alone? That's too much of a coincidence for my liking."

Bonnar put a hand on her friend's arm. "She's going in tomorrow morning to see the sketch artist. They'll get him. In the meantime the kids don't leave the yard alone."

"Do you have a security system in place?" House asked her.

"Uh, yes I do," Hutton told him with a nod, "but I haven't engaged it in years."

"Start," House told her somberly, "tonight."


	41. Chapter 41 Part 3 Ch 7

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**A/N 2: **_Sorry to all of you who commented on the last chapter but didn't get a reply. I do read all of them and do my best to reply but sometimes RL doesn't give me a lot of time to do that. Please don't stop reviewing! Your comments and suggestions really help me improve my writing and give me pause for thought sometimes. Also, this is unbeta-ed so you will find errors, though I do read through it two or three times before I post. Thanks for your understanding about that._

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Seven: Thursday, June 24, 2010; 11:32 A.M.**

With a sigh Chase sat back in his seat. "So you're finally satisfied with our selections or should I have Kirkland bring more coffee and a mallet so I can knock you out and finish on my own?"

Expecting a sarcastic response the Assistant Chief of Diagnostic Medicine was disappointed when House gave no answer whatsoever. House's thoughts were still back at the acreage with Hutton and her family. He'd been sure not to say so at the time but he was quite concerned about the attack on Stephania the night before. She was feisty and lucked out but the teen could just as easily have ended up raped and dumped somewhere dead or left to die. The incident with Hutton at the farmer's market had been interesting but hadn't really disturbed the diagnostician. The fact that the guy who had stalked her and Bonnar had been eerily similar to the guy who had rapid Hutton years ago had been easily dismissed as coincidence and a harmless jerk. The fact that the guy who went after Stephania matched the description of the guy at the market turned things up a notch. It was too _much_ of a coincidence to be coincidental and the fact that he knew where Hutton lived meant he'd either known previous to his appearance at the farmer's market or had managed to follow Bonnar and her home without their noticing. It seemed to be too random, so there had to be a pattern. This guy wasn't just harassing a random woman and her family. There was more. It was more personal; but who, and why?

"House!" Chase practically shouted into his ear. The older doctor startled and then glared at the younger.

"What? I think you deafened me!" House grumbled angrily.

"I've been trying to get your attention for over a minute but you were off in dream land somewhere," the intensivist told him. "Have we come to an agreement? Can I call the candidates we've chosen and tell them that they're hired or not?"

Sighing explosively his boss nodded and said, "Good. Yes, tell them—all except that hematologist with the red hair."

"Dr. Chalmers," Chase told him

"Yes, her. There's something about her I don't care much for," House acknowledged.

"What's that?"

"She's a churchgoer," he answered, saying the word as if it tasted bitter.

Chase shook his head, "House, you can't discriminate against her based on her religious practices!"

House shook his head, frowning. "I don't care what her position on religion is," he explained. "I need someone who will be able to lie if the situation necessitates it. Churchgoers only lie when it benefits _them_ to do it. I don't need some moralistic do-gooder messing with the way I operate my department."

"Of course not," Chase responded sarcastically. "Honest doctors can be such a pain. Look, if we nix her then we have to pick someone else. I have a suggestion."

"So do I. I suggest we worry about this after lunch."

He was still distracted and it wasn't lost on Chase who after eight years knew him fairly well.

"Something's bothering you," the Australian told him. "You've been acting like a zombie all morning."

"Better than a wombat," House told him irritably. He poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table and downed it without stopping to breathe.

"Now see, that doesn't even make sense," Chase pointed out. "You're insults usually have some kind of rational meaning behind them. What happened? Bad date with some nurse or something?"

House rolled his eyes and rose to his feet. "Don't be ridiculous, Chase. I only have eyes for you."

"And if I thought you were serious I'd plant you one between those eyes," Chase told him, smirking, also getting up from the table, gathering the file folders and following him into the corridor.

"I never took you as someone who would be homophobic," House told him lightly. Very few people knew that he was dating Clee yet, although it wasn't a huge secret or anything. Neither of them cared if their colleagues knew they were together; their business was their business and what others thought was irrelevant.

"I'm not," was the quick response, "but I'm not gay and if someone who was gay came onto me they'd better watch out."

"Ah," House pointed out, "yet you have that reaction to the idea. I highly doubt you would hit a pretty woman if she tried to pick you up. If you truly weren't a homophobe you would have the same reaction in both cases."

"That's ridiculous," Chase argued. "Of course I would be more receptive to the girl because I'm straight." They reached the three elevators and waited for one of them to arrive on their floor. "Are you telling me it wouldn't bother you in the least if some guy walked up to you and hit on you?"

"This isn't about me," House told him, holding back an amused smirk. An elevator going down arrived. After three people stepped off House and Chase stepped on and rode down to the lobby with three other people. "This is about you. I'm not the one who threatened physical injury. Admit it. You're a homophobe."

Chase cast him a glare that said he was uncomfortable talking about it in an elevator car full of other people but House chose not to notice.

"It's not unusual," House told him, continuing. "Most heterosexual men are homophobic to greater or lesser degrees. It's perceived to be a threat to their masculinity, it's an unknown that some men are curious about but would never admit to it. Humans are often phobic of people and things that are different from themselves or foreign to their normal environment. It doesn't _necessarily_ mean you're insecure about your own sexuality."

"I'd rather not discuss this, House," Chase murmured to him, his face a little flushed. House didn't believe in pity, thus he didn't change the subject. He enjoyed watching the younger doctor squirm.

"Of course you don't want to discuss it," he told the intensivist. "It makes you uncomfortable to explore your own sexuality. Again, not abnormal for those who are confused—"

The elevator arrived at the main floor and Chase was the first one out, followed by House and then the one male and two female strangers. As the unknown three passed Chase the women looked at him with smiles tugging at the corners of their mouths and the male frowned, taking a wide berth around him. House allowed his amusement to show now.

"Thanks a lot, House," Chase growled, appearing to be embarrassed. "I just started here and already I have rumors started about me."

"Mission accomplished," House told him as they walked towards the cafeteria. He received a scowl and the silent treatment from the younger man. _Bonus!_ he thought. They went through the line for their food. When they got to the cash register House pointed back at Chase with his thumb. "He's got it," he told the cash register and then limped quickly toward the tables; House could picture the astounded look on the younger man's face and smiled to himself.

He spotted Anderson seated alone at a table for four and joined him. The pediatrician looked up from his cell phone and smiled at him. "Hey, House."

"Hey," the diagnostician responded, nodding at the phone. "Texting someone, with a smile on your face…hmm…say hi to Hutton for me and ask her if she called the security company yet."

Anderson gave him a knowing look then frowned. "Security company?"

House nodded, biting into his cheeseburger. "About additional CCTV cameras for around the houses, stable, and gate."

"Why does she need that?" the other man asked just as Chase reached the table and sat down in the chair next to Anderson's.

"You owe me five-seventy-eight," the intensivist told him indignantly, pointing a finger at him.

"Put it on my tab," House told him aloofly with a shrug.

"Who do I look like—Wilson?" Chase responded. "I'm not starting a tab with you."

"She hasn't told you yet?" House replied to Anderson's question. "Whoops."

"I'm not texting with Liv right now," the pediatrician told him. "It's Bryce. What is it that she hasn't told me?"

House realized that he'd said too much already. He'd honestly thought the psychiatrist would have told him by now and hadn't intended to spread information if she hadn't wanted anyone else to know.

"I think you should ask her," House told him, stealing two French fries from Chase's tray when the younger man was checking out the caboose of a pretty red-headed doctor that had walked by. _Serves him right for leering_, House silently justified despite the fact that he had noticed, too.

"Did you see the way she walked?" Chase asked the men, turning back to the table, smiling appreciatively.

"That's Dr. Werner. She's a urology fellow," Anderson told him with a crooked smile. "Her boyfriend plays for the Eagles—linebacker."

"Eh," House said sardonically, "Strong and sexually secure Chase can take him." He took a sip of his soda. "Can't you Chase?"

"Shut up, House," the intensivist told him, biting into his sandwich and glowering at him. Anderson raised an eyebrow at that.

House smirked. He looked up and saw Clee approaching their table and allowed himself a small smile. Their eyes met and a smile appeared on the surgeon's face as well, giving the diagnostician a little thrill which he then banished, silently mocking himself for being such a girl about it. Clee took the seat next to House's and pecked him on the mouth fairly discreetly. Anderson didn't react but Chase, who had been taking a drink of coffee at the time, nearly did a spit-take all over the diagnostician and began to choke on it instead.

The corners of House's mouth turned upward at his employee's reaction. Anderson was checking to see if the younger doctor was okay and Clee looked first at House then at Chase in confusion. He looked back at House and a look of understanding came upon him. His blue eyes widened and a small amused smile touched his lips.

"Ah," the surgeon said to House, "I see you hadn't told him about us yet."

House shrugged, saying, "He didn't even know about _me_ yet. It just never came up."

Once Chase was breathing semi-normally again he looked up at House and Clee with watery eyes. "I'm…sorry," the intensivist told the surgeon a little uncomfortably; his voice was still hoarse. "It just caught me by surprise."

Remaining amused Clee responded, "I can see that."

"So that explains the discussion we had earlier," Chase realized, shaking his head. "You could have warned me; now I look like a total wanker."

"Yes, but what fun would there have been in that?" House retorted mischievously. "Psst, Chase. Guess what? I'm bisexual and doing the mattress mambo with Justin. Better?"

All he received was a glare but that was enough.

"Better late than never," Anderson interjected, choking back a chuckle. "Now enough deflections, House. What happened with Liv that she needs to up her security around the acreage? We both know that if I ask her she'll tell me a watered down version in order to prevent me from worrying."

Clee frowned. "What _did_ happen?"

_Great,_ the diagnostician thought grimly. He exhaled audibly. "You know about what happened at the farmer's market, right?"

There were two nods and a shake of the head. "I don't," Chase input.

House rolled his eyes. "She went to a farmer's market and was stalked by a pervert. It shook her up," he said to the intensivist and then continued to all three. "Yesterday afternoon Stephania went for a horseback ride outside the fence along the road. It's not certain, but from Steph's testimony it appears that the same creep appeared alongside her in his car and asked for help finding someplace on his map. She dismounted—"

Anderson suddenly hung his head and Clee shook his. Chase simply frowned.

"—and approached the car. The guy tried to throw her in the car and managed but before he could tie her up she managed to place a good kick and get away on the horse. She came galloping into the yard. I only know about this because I saw the police cars in Hutton's driveway and investigated."

"Holy shit!" Clee muttered, frowning deeply, concern all over his face. "She could have been taken somewhere, raped and dumped."

"She got lucky," was Chase's comment. Anderson lifted his head, a combination of rage and worry etched on his face and evident in his eyes, the tightness of his jaw and neck muscles, his clenched fists and slightly increased respiratory rate. It was the most emotional House had seen him.

"Excuse me," the pediatrician said as he rose from the table and picked up his tray, his lunch half-eaten. He went to the nearest trash can and dumped it all, then strode away without another word.

"Shit," House murmured, kicking himself for not keeping his mouth shut. He wondered if what he'd said was going to hit the fan now that Anderson knew and also knew that Hutton hadn't called him to let him know. House knew that Hutton and Anderson had been dating but Hutton hadn't told him anything more about their relationship, maintaining at least a modicum of professional distance. In fact, she'd pulled back a little on the personal discussions outside of their sessions; they still talked, he still stopped by her place to work on Stephania's project with her or play Xbox with David when he was bored and Clee was busy and they would visit, but it was different somehow and it disappointed him more than he was willing to admit. No matter, it was the wise position to take for both of them, he knew, and he knew that they were still friends. Friends…he mentally shook his head at that. Who would have thought the plural form of the word would ever apply to him. For so long his only real friend had been Wilson until he'd blown it with the 'love' revelation. He wondered where he would be just then if he hadn't revealed his feelings for the oncologist. That was in the past though. What ifs were a waste of time. He had _friends_, plural, and a lover who genuinely cared about him and made him smile like a teeny-bopper at times—and the times he thought about his former best friend were becoming fewer in between.

Clee placed a comforting hand over House's and squeezed slightly. "Don't worry about it, Greg. Gage has a good head on his shoulders. It'll be alright. Is there any idea of who this guy might be?"

"Not yet," House answered grimly, shaking his head. "Neither Hutton nor Stephania had any idea who he was and they said he didn't look familiar to them. Hutton and Stephania were supposed to go in to the police station to meet with a forensic artist this morning to make composite sketches of who they saw. That might bring up something. The guy is of average height and build, brunet, with a Van Dyke beard. That's all they have to go on."

"If the guy that went after Stephania is the same guy who stalked Dr. Hutton," Chase spoke up with the same expression he wore to differentials, "then he possibly knows her and her family's daily patterns and movements by now. They could be at risk wherever they go."

House nodded. He'd thought of that himself since he'd found out about the second incidence. Hutton was talking about returning to work after the fourth of July which meant she might be vulnerable travelling between home and work as well as at the hospital. He made a note to contact Roth about it. The cat was already out of the bag so he figured he might as well, just in case Hutton, in her stubbornness, failed to do so. There was also the annual BBQ to think about, what with people from throughout the community and the hospital coming and going and milling about.

"Greg?"

Realizing that Clee had been addressing him and he'd failed to respond House left those thoughts behind and looked at him blankly.

"Yeah?"

Smiling Clee said to him, "I asked if we were still on for tonight?"

"Uh, yeah," House responded, drawing from his memory the plans they'd made a few days before. "I'll pick you up at eight on my bike."

"Hot date?" Chase asked, blushing slightly as he stared at his sandwich as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

"If you can call bowling hot," the surgeon answered. "Why don't you and a date come along? We'll make it a double."

"Chase will be too busy tonight calling the candidates we've chosen to hire, _won't _you?" House interjected quickly, giving Chase a look of warning that he knew the young doctor knew all too well. The last thing he wanted was to go on a double date, much less with Chase.

A slow smirk appeared on the Australian's face and a gleam in his eye that House knew meant trouble; he started to kick himself for giving him a hard time earlier.

"No, I'm pretty sure I can make those calls and still be able to meet you on time," Chase told the surgeon with a smile. "Sounds like fun. Let me know where you're going and I'll meet you there with my date."

"I thought you said you hadn't had a chance yet to meet anyone in Philadelphia?" House said through gritted teeth and a fake smile.

"Please, Greg!" Clee spoke up with a chuckle. "Look at him—he's adorable. He'll have no trouble finding some gorgeous woman quickly enough. Hell, if he liked guys I could set him up with a couple of my friends."

Chase blushed a little more. "Just woman," he confirmed.

House harrumphed grumpily. He remembered the time Wilson had invited Chase speed-dating with them. Chase had left with a stack of cards where House had left with one and Wilson, two. _Stupid speed-dating! Stupid Chase!_

Writing the address of the bowling lanes they were going to onto a napkin, Clee handed it to the intensivist with a smile.

Chase took the napkin, looked at it and then nodded. "I think I pass this place on my way to work. Great, I'll meet you there around eight thirty, then?"

"Sounds good," Clee told him as he stabbed at his salad with a fork.

The youngest at the table looked at his boss and gave him a grin. "I'm really looking forward to it." He popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth, stood up with his tray and walked away, receiving a look of death from House.

"Just perfect," the diagnostician muttered. "A night out with Chase and whatever brainless nurse he picks up between now and eight-thirty. I say we have a quiet night at my place, just the two of us."

Clee smiled amusedly at his boyfriend; House knew that look. It was the look that said there was something special for him as a reward if he behaved himself. Clee's special rewards were killers on House's resolve. The surgeon never threatened to cut House off—the younger man was just as horny as he was—but he did like to positively encourage good behavior. House was getting a hard-on just thinking about the possibilities.

"Okay," the older man relented predictably, "one double date."

"And no further antagonizing him this evening," Clee told him, staring at House's mouth.

"Oh, you owe me _big_ time for this," House told him, frowning as his hand under the table grabbed the surgeon's thigh and began to slide up his inseam.

"Don't worry about that," he was told with a wink. "Besides, there's nothing saying we can't queer him out tonight with a little PDA."

"Funny you should put it that way," House responded as his hand lightly brushed over Clee's hardening member beneath the dress pants he wore and then drawing his hand back and returning to his burger.

"Tease," the surgeon accused softly.

House grinned suggestively and quipped, "And you love it!"

**(~*~)**

Chase sat in the doctor's lounge, the phone to his ear and a devious smile on his face.

"Hi!" he said cheerfully. "You know how you said we should get together soon? How about bowling tonight?...Yeah, sorry about the short notice but it didn't occur to me until just now. It's actually a double date…I think this is one double date you'll find interesting…No, I can't tell you any more, just that it will be _interesting_…Yeah, kind of like a surprise…Great! We're meeting at the bowling alley at eight-thirty so I'll pick you up around eight...Yeah…great, see you later! Bye." The intensivist hung up.

He chuckled softly to himself as he drank his coffee and relaxed on the sofa. Oh yes, this was going to be _interesting _indeed!

**Thursday, June 24, 2010; 1:02 P.M.**

House knocked on the door to Xander Roth's office. The chief administrator was seated behind his desk while talking on the phone. He waved the diagnostician in. House entered quietly. When Roth pointed to one of the chairs in front of his desk House took the hint and had a seat, waiting for his boss's phone conversation to be over. He had to keep himself from smirking as he listened in.

"I know, Renata…honey, I'm at work. If Mom's out you'll have to stay with your brother until she gets back…I know, I know, how dare your mother and I at our advanced age actually have sex, your mother get pregnant and have a baby brother just to ruin your social life," Roth looked at House with a smirk and rolled his eyes. "We should be taken out back and shot…I love you too, buttercup…if you want to use the Expedition tomorrow night you will. Mmhmm…pissing you off actually _was_ on my agenda today, sweetheart, how did you know? What?...Mom's home now? Thank God!"

Roth hung up his desk phone loudly and exhaled, shaking his head.

"Do you have kids, Dr. House?"

"None that I'm aware of," House replied quickly, earning a chuckle from the other man.

"There are times when they can be a blessing and a joy," Roth told him, "and then they wake up. What can I do for you today?"

"It's not for me, actually. It's for Dr. Hutton," House replied, rolling his cane vertically between his hands.

"Oh?" Roth responded, "I was under the impression she was improving and thinking about returning to work."

"Her health is improving," House told him with a nod. "This is more of a heads-up than anything. A couple of weeks ago she was stalked at a farmer's market she went to with Dr. Bonnar. It frightened her more than anything. Up until yesterday she chalked it up to a freak occurrence, some moron getting his jollies by scaring women."

"What happened yesterday?" Roth demanded, sitting forward in his seat and frowning deeply. "Did something happen to her?"

House couldn't help but notice once again how everyone seemed to be very protective of the woman. She certainly did have a circle of close, caring friends to rely on.

"Not to her," House replied seriously, "but to Stephania. Someone tried to abduct her last night but she managed to get away and get to help. Her description of the suspect matched the description Hutton gave of the guy who stalked and frightened her."

"My God!" Roth said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Was Steph hurt?"

"She was shaken up, some bruising on her arms where he grabbed her and threw her into his car," House told him, "but otherwise she's fine, physically at least. The police took a statement and Hutton and Stephania went into the police station to work with a forensic artist. Hutton doesn't know that I'm telling you. I'm overstepping but she's stubborn and if left to her she'd likely never tell you. Bonnar and I are pressuring her to upgrade her security around the acreage. She may also be in danger when she leaves the acreage."

"And at work," Roth added, picking up on House's line of reasoning. "Thank you for filling me in. I'll be certain to talk with the hospital's chief of security about this. If there's anything we can do to make certain Liv or any other staff member is safe at work we'll see it done. Don't worry, I won't tell her you told me, and you're right—she can be very stubborn."

House nodded, rising from the chair with help from his cane. "Thanks," he said. Roth nodded, picking up his phone as the diagnostician limped out.

He made his way to his temporary office. Kirkland was seated at the desk outside when he arrived.

"Phone messages for you," he told the diagnostician, holding out the small pieces of paper. House took them without a word and went into his office, shutting the door. It was a good, solid door where he had privacy when he wanted privacy, not an office with a glass door and glass walls with blinds which were inadequate. Whoever had the brilliant idea of building a hospital, where privacy is important, with clear glass walls needed to be castrated or given a tubal ligation—no need for his or her moron DNA to continue to pollute the human genome.

He sat down at his desk and leaned his cane against the wall where it was easily at hand. He shuffled through the messages, tempted to just toss them into the waste basket but then stopped himself. This wasn't PPTH. He was being given a second chance in his career and he didn't want to screw it up or make those placing their faith in him down. Two were from the contractor in charge of the renovations being made to house the new department. One was from a drug company rep (leeches!) but it was the last one that caught his attention. He frowned and his hand shook a little. He picked up the phone and dialed.

"Hello?" a female voice answered after two rings.

House swallowed hard and then took a deep breath. "Is this Mrs. Wilson?"

"Yes," she replied pleasantly, "and you are?"

"This is Greg House," he told her, wondering what kind of reaction he was going to receive now that she knew who it was. He had no idea how much, if anything, her middle son had told her about the end of their friendship.

"Oh, yes!" the woman acknowledged, her voice becoming more serious but not severe; so far so good. "Greg, thank you for returning my call so promptly! It was difficult tracking you down. I didn't know that you had moved to Philadelphia."

_Yeah, yeah_, House thought impatiently. _Get to the point. Did something happen to Wilson?_

"Anyway," Wilson's mother said after House didn't say anything, "I'm calling because I'm very concerned. Greg, do you know where James is?"

House was taken aback at the question. She didn't know? He was certain Wilson would have told her about quitting at PPTH and moving to Chicago. Even if his plans had changed Wilson always kept in frequent contact with his parents…or at least, he used to.

"Isn't he in Chicago, working with his cousin?" House asked, unable to hide the surprise he felt from his voice.

"Chicago?" Mrs. Wilson echoed, sounding mystified. "He doesn't have a cousin who's a doctor or who lives in Chicago. Why would he be there when he's been working in Princeton for so long? I've been trying to get a hold of him for two weeks now but when I called him at home a message keeps telling me that his phone is no longer in service and at Princeton-Plainsboro I was told that he no longer worked there. Did something happen to him?"

House sighed, his fingers on his free hand beginning to strum on the surface of his desk due to nervous tension. This was very strange and unexpected. He didn't have a clue where Wilson was or what he was doing but the fact that the oncologist's family didn't know either caused him concern. He cursed silently, wishing he'd trusted his instincts and tossed the message rather than responding to it. He didn't want to think about Wilson and he absolutely didn't want to feel concerned or anything else for the man. He was trying to move on, damnit!

He knew he had to tell her the truth. "Mrs. Wilson, I don't know where James is or what he's doing anymore. In fact, we're no longer friends and I am no longer in contact with him. An employee of mine said he was planning on joining his cousin's practice in Chicago but obviously he was mistaken. I can't help you."

"Oh," she said, sounding forlorn. House closed his eyes, trying not to feel anything or care if she was worried or not. "I'm sorry to hear about you're falling out with him, Greg. You two were friends for a long time. Forgive me, I'm just beside myself with worry. He wrote me a letter which I received two weeks ago, post-marked New York. He sounded very confused and depressed in it. To be honest I was worried about his safety—"

"Mrs. Wilson," House said harshly, unable to listen to her any further, "James and I are no longer friends, I don't know where he is and what's happened to him and I don't care anymore. Good-bye!" He hung up before she had a chance to respond. His hand remained on the handset for a minute or so, trembling along with the rest of his body. He took in deep breaths through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to practice the grounding techniques he'd learned in therapy. Gradually his breathing slowed to a normal rate again, his heart stopped hammering in his ears and the trembling stopped.

Wilson was missing. His own family had no idea where he was. He was depressed. He was likely still drinking heavily. House had several horrible scenarios of where he could be and what could have happened to him that caused his anxiety to rise. The thought of Wilson sick or injured or a victim of something unsavory caused his anxiety to rise again.

He knew that he could try to ground himself until the sun blew up but it wouldn't get Wilson off his mind now. _God-fucking-damnit!_ What did he have to do to forget the man and move forward? Why did he still care so much about a man who told him that he didn't want to be his friend anymore. He rubbed at his leg absently. Even in Philadelphia he was tracked down and drawn into the oncologist's ongoing insanity. _Wilson_ dumped _him_. Wilson broke House's heart. Wilson was too damned stubborn to admit that he had a problem that he needed help with. How was Wilson his problem anymore?

Picking up the phone again he tried calling Hutton's place and got a busy signal on both lines. Next he tried her cell phone but it immediately sent him to her voicemail. He needed to talk to somebody—he knew that. He was learning to identify the signs of his anxiety, to self-regulate as much as possible and then to call should those techniques not work well enough. House hated the fact that he was as needy and emotionally fragile as he was. His entire life he'd believed that men didn't allow their emotions to rule them in any way and here he was feeling overwhelmed. He hated it, and he knew he needed help. He thought about calling Nolan but nixed that idea. That jackass was the last person he needed just then. He didn't want to do it, hated himself for even considering doing it, but he did.

He dialed Clee's extension. He remembered him saying he had mounds of charting to finish; House hoped that he was in his office and didn't mind being bothered with his neuroses.

"Dr. Justin Clee," the soothing voice answered right away.

House closed his eyes and tried to breathe normally. This was a mistake…a big mistake. He knew he should just hang up but something prevented him from doing that. He struggled to find his voice.

"Hello, is someone there?" he could hear his lover ask, knowing that if there wasn't a response the surgeon would hang up.

"Justin," House said, sounding strangled.

"Greg, what's wrong?" Clee asked him right away, sounding concerned, not pissed off—yet. "Are you okay?"

House couldn't find anything intelligent to say. He felt so ashamed. "No," he managed to mutter.

"Are you in your office? Is it your leg?"

"I'm…my office…no…"

"I'll be right there. Don't go anywhere, okay?"

House hung up and then rested his head in his hands. What the fuck was he doing? He had a good thing going with Clee and here he was about to fuck that up just like he fucked up every relationship he found himself in. Why had he called? House had the sudden urge to pick something up and throw it but aside from the phone, laptop, desk, his chair and a spare and a desk lamp there was nothing in the room to throw. He looked at the lamp again.

Can't throw it, he kept telling himself over and over again as if it were a mantra—the mantra to purge his former best friend out of his thoughts and keep himself from doing something impulsive or self-destructive. He began to pound his desk with his fist in time to his heart beat, which was still racing. Losing all sense of what was going on outside of himself House was startled when the door to his office opened and Clee hurried in, closing it behind him. The younger man hurried around the desk and turned house's chair so that the diagnostician was facing him. House still had his eyes closed tightly, still whispered his mantra. Crouching down next to the chair Clee took House's face in his hands.

"Greg," he said soothingly, caressing his cheekbones with his thumbs, "it's okay. Shh, it's okay. It's Justin. I'm here. Greg, it's going to be okay. Can you open your eyes for me? Come on, I want to see those sexy blues of yours. It's okay."

After another few seconds of this calm reassurance House managed to pry his eyes open but shame prevented him from meeting the surgeon's gaze.

"Greg, look at me. Please?" Clee murmured. House shook his head.

"I'm sorry," the diagnostician whispered. "I'm sorry for bothering you."

"Look at me, Greg," his lover said more firmly but still without anger or ridicule. His tone was tender. House forced himself to look at the other man, to meet his eyes. They stared at House with concern but also something else, something that looked very gentle and caring.

"You are _not_ a bother to me," Clee told him. "Do you hear me? You are not a bother to me. I care about you _very much_. I'm here for you. I'm glad you called me, I really am. What happened, baby? Can you talk to me about it?"

House didn't even know where to start or how much he could tell him before it became too much. He felt a tear escape his eyes and cursed himself for being so weak.

"Can you hold me, first?" he murmured.

Clee smiled softly and nodded. "Of course." He wrapped his arms around the older man, pulling him into an embrace. House nuzzled his neck, his arms snaking almost timidly around the younger man's waist. Clee stroked the hair on the back of House's head soothingly.

"I'm sorry," the diagnostician whispered again. He finally found himself calming down, relishing the feeling of being in his arms, feeling safe and accepted.

Loved.

"Don't apologize," he was told. After a minute or two more in the embrace House gently extracted himself, calmer and better able to meet the other man's gaze.

"Are you ready to talk now?" Clee asked him.

"You have better things to do," House demurred but his lover wasn't to be dissuaded so easily.

"I have paperwork that's already a week late. A day more won't make that big of a difference," the younger man told him with a rueful smile. "You're more important."

"And you're thighs and ass are going to be killing you tonight if you stay like that," House told him, deflecting. Clee stood up again

"It's a good exercise for my ass," the younger man told him with a wink. "Keeps it firm."

House managed a weak smile at that. He watched as Clee got the extra chair and set it down where he could still face him and hug him should House need it. Their knees touched. Taking his hands in his own, Clee leveled a look at House.

"Talk to me."

"I'm not certain that's a good idea."

"Greg," Clee said soberly, "quit avoiding. Let me guess…you're worried that the topic will either upset me or anger me. Are you breaking up with me?"

"Hell, no!" House assured him quickly, hoping to dispel that thought immediately.

"Good, that's a relief," the younger man told him. "So, I'm guessing that if it isn't that, then it's about something you believe I won't want to hear about…is it about Wilson?"

House stared at him in incredulity. He was good. "Yes," the diagnostician admitted. He related to the surgeon about the call he'd received from Wilson's mother. "It shouldn't be affecting me like this," he finished. "I really don't want him anymore."

"I think I'd be more concerned if you hadn't been affected by the call at least a little bit," Clee admitted, nodding slowly. "You two have a lot of history and I know that you don't take relationships lightly. That bodes well for me. The fact that you just told me about the call and how it affected you makes me trust you more; when you tell me it's over for good between you and him I believe you. The truth doesn't scare me; lies and secrets do."

"Still," House told him, "I can't continue to allow Wilson to throw me into a tailspin. It's not fair to either one of us."

"Why do you think hearing from his mother upset you so much?" the other man asked.

Contemplating that question for a few moments, House came to the conclusion. "I think it was the concern in her voice about his being incommunicado. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't concerned for his well-being, but it was her fear that pushed my buttons, I think. Wilson has a younger brother who was diagnosed as schizophrenic when he was a teenager. Danny was fine as long as he stayed on his medication. Like many schizophrenics, he didn't. He ran away and disappeared. For years Wilson searched the streets for him, hoping that he wasn't dead. A couple of years back he was found and hospitalized but he escaped and went missing again. I'm thinking Mrs. Wilson is afraid that she's lost two sons to the disease and the streets."

"Did Wilson ever show any signs of delusions or other psychotic behavior in the past?" Clee asked, puzzled. "He's a little old to be showing new symptoms now."

"The only indication of mental illness he showed over the years was depression, which he was seeing a shrink and taking meds for," House replied. "I don't think he's schizophrenic, though. It makes sense for her to worry, I suppose."

"Didn't you say he was an alcoholic?" was the next question.

"Yes," the older man admitted with a reluctant nod. "He could be on a binge somewhere and doesn't want anyone to find him. Disappearing would be appropriately passive-aggressive of him. He always was a manipulator…and yes, that _is_ the pot calling the kettle black. When I think about it now, Wilson and I were toxic for each other. We fed off of each other's weaknesses, enabling each other. When I started to really work at rebuilding my life, he couldn't deal with it."

"I've read that's fairly typical of people working on their issues and evolving into healthier people. Those closest to them who in some way benefitted from or became accustomed to the sick behaviors often resent and even work against the changes, even going so far as to actively sabotage their progress in some cases." Clee commented. "I know that was the case with Charlie and some of his fair-weather friends. I'm glad you chose to continue to work on yourself and build a new life instead of allowing him to hold you back."

House thought about that and realized that as hard as the decision had been at the time to keep moving forward when Wilson refused to join him, it had been the correct decision to make. His life was finally coming together, not that he could blame Wilson for his demons and troubles in the past; those were of his own making. The diagnostician had no desire to throw away what he had now for anyone.

"Me, too," House told him, reaching out to cup Clee's face. "If I hadn't, I never would have met you…and I can't believe how _cheesy_ that sounded! I sound like a fucking chick!"

Chuckling, the surgeon replied, "A little cheese now and again isn't so bad. Don't worry—I won't ruin your rep by telling anyone." He placed his hand behind House's neck and pulled the older man into a very smolderingly sexy kiss that only left them both wanting a whole lot more and wishing that the work day was over.

**Thursday, June 24, 2010; 5:48 P.M.**

Hutton was in the kitchen with Bonnar finishing making dinner when the doorbell rang. She frowned slightly. She wasn't expecting anyone, the kids were both home, and House, she knew, had a date with Justin that evening.

"I'll get that," she told Bonnar, wiping her hands on a cloth and then going to the front door.

"Remember to look out the peephole first," Bonnar called to her, earning the eye roll that she didn't see the psychiatrist give her. All the same Hutton did, in fact, look out the peephole. She smiled when she saw Gage Anderson standing out there.

"It's Gage," she reported even as she undid the chain and the dead bolt on the door; opening it she met him with a grin but that quickly faded away when she saw the look of consternation he was giving her. "Hi! What's wrong?"

"You tell me," he said, sounding almost hurt. Hutton had a feeling that she was in hot water but for what she didn't know. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Bonnar was staring in her direction. Stepping outside she shut the door behind her for privacy.

"Why are you upset?" she asked her boyfriend cautiously. "Did something happen at the hospital?"

"You could say that," he responded sharply and then stopped himself, closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. Gage's hands came to rest gently on her shoulders. "Liv, why did I have to hear about what happened to Steph from House instead of you? Didn't you think I'd be concerned?"

She realized what had happened and that it had completely slipped her mind to call him—or anyone else—about it other than for the police. House knew because he'd investigated after seeing the police car in her driveway. It had been a thoughtless oversight. As for the diagnostician, she wasn't thrilled with the fact that he was spreading the word without checking with her first.

"Oh, Gage," Hutton said with regret, wrapping her arms around his waist and pulling him closer, "I'm sorry you had to hear about it that way. I was so upset last night that I didn't think about calling anyone."

"Am I just anyone?" he asked her, frowning a little while pulling her a little closer as well.

Hutton realized just how big her screw-up had been; he had a definite point and later she would think further about that.

"No," she assured him softly. "You're definitely not just anyone. I'm sorry that I hurt you."

The creases in the pediatrician's forehead began to relax. "I really care about you, Liv, and Steph and David too. I want to be there for you, if you'll let me."

Raising her hand she caressed his cheek, tracing the outline of his lips with her fingertips until they began to smile. "Okay," she told him, almost whispering.

Gage pulled her into a kiss, literally taking her breath away. When they parted she panted a little, trying to catch her breath.

"Why don't you come in for dinner?" she said to him. "There's plenty."

"Then we'll have dessert at my place?" he inquired, cocking an eyebrow suggestively.

"Sounds great," she purred. "I'll even bring the whipped cream."

"Mmm," he hummed in approval before kissing her again. She pulled away, took his hand and led him into the house.


	42. Chapter 42 Part 3 Ch 8

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: ~**6600

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Eight: Thursday, June 24, 2010; 8:36 P.M.**

Thanks to House and his insatiable appetite and groping hands Clee and he were late arriving at Peter's Bowlerama. Not that the microsurgeon had complained and House's defense was that he was too damned irresistible in a pair of jeans. They had decided to take Clee's car instead of the bike since the weatherman and the dark rain clouds approaching warned of rain. After paying and getting their shoes they went to their assigned lane to find Robert Chase throwing practice balls with precise skill, getting frame after frame either strikes or the odd spare.

"Look what we have here," Clee said, looking impressed with the intensivist's bowling skills, "a bowling shark. If I'd known that I wouldn't have invited you."

Chase grinned as he wiped his bowling ball with a cloth.

"Now you tell me," House said to his lover in mock- annoyance. To Chase he said in a slightly snide manner, "Couldn't get a date, huh?"

"Sure he did," a female voice said from behind Clee and him. House's eyes widened and he turned around with Clee following him in curiosity.

"So the prodigal has returned," House said, hiding a smile. For some reason he had the urge to hug her which he quickly tamped down, once again blaming therapy for softening him.

"I just couldn't stay away from your sunny disposition," Dr. Remy Hadley told him with a sarcastic smile. She looked good, if a bit tired. House noticed no appreciable difference about her physically, but about her was an air of peace he'd never associated with her before. Wherever she had gone and whatever she had done there definitely had agreed with her.

Before House had the opportunity to introduce his lover to her 'Thirteen' beat him to it, extending her hand out to him.

"Hi, I'm Doctor Remy Hadley," she said with a warm smile. "I used to work for House at Princeton-Plainsboro."

Clee took her hand and shook it firmly, "Dr. Justin Clee. I work at St. Luke's Presbyterian along with Greg."

"He's my boyfriend," House told her, his eyes almost daring her to make a comment. She didn't, but the knowing look she gave her former boss expressed her amusement. She didn't, however look at all shocked or surprised. That alone piqued House's curiosity and gnawed at him for most of the evening.

"My condolences," Thirteen told Clee wryly, earning a glare from the diagnostician which she appeared to ignore. "So what's your specialization, Doctor?"

"Please, call me Justin," he told her. "I'm a vascular surgeon and I sub-specialized in microsurgery."

"So you're good with your hands," she concluded, "and House's hands are never still. A match made in heaven."

"I think so," Clee responded, smirking. House could tell that Clee was very much aware of the unspoken conversation taking place between him and Thirteen, though he wasn't certain that the surgeon understood why yet.

"Beer anyone?" Clee offered as Chase was entering their names into the automatic scoring system. "I'm buying the first round."

Both House and Chase took him up on it but Thirteen declined, ordering a diet ginger ale instead.

"Nice try," Clee said to House, placing a kiss on top of his head. "I'll bring you a grape soda." He headed for the food counter.

"He seems nice," Thirteen told her former boss once the surgeon was out of ear shot. "What the hell is he doing with _you_?"

"Haven't you heard?" House quipped. "I'm a changed man. No booze, no pills—"

"No woman," she finished for him, smiling. "You hypocrite! For the past three years you've mocked and harassed me for being bisexual when you were closeted the entire time. I can't say that I'm all that surprised, though, given the way you undressed Wilson with your eyes every time he walked into a room. I'm sorry that Wilson wasn't into you that way. It was apparent to everyone that there was something there."

Her mentioning of Wilson through him off enough that he guttered it, which Chase gleefully announced for other players in the building to hear.

"Shut up, wombat," House said, scowling at him, "or I'll shove you down a hole and seal it with concrete."

"I'd just dig myself out elsewhere," Chase muttered flippantly and he got up to throw.

House chose to ignore him, directing his attention back to Thirteen. "Wilson moved on, so did I. Besides, we were never more than friends. He's not a topic I talk about anymore so drop it."

"I just always thought that if my suspicions about you were right you and he would end up together," she said with a sigh. When House glared at her warningly, she held her hands up in surrender and dropped the part about Wilson. "I never took you to be someone who would hide his true sexuality, though."

After Chase's umpteenth strike House picked up his ball, preparing to throw nothing less than a strike himself. "I'm not a hypocrite," he said as he concentrated on his throw. "I never once claimed _not_ to be bisexual."

He rolled the ball perfectly for the strike he'd decided upon.

"Nice throw," Chase told him. "He's got a point there. We assumed he was heterosexual because we always saw him flirting with Cuddy. I know I didn't even consider the possibility that he could in fact be bi. Just because we heard him say a couple of times that he wasn't gay didn't mean he was straight. Who knew what he did when he left the hospital each night."

"Yes, who knew?" House agreed, looking pointedly at Thirteen again. "But you suspected and 'gaydar' is nothing more than acute observational skills of certain traits and behaviors. What tipped you off?"

"Aside the obvious sexual tension between you and a certain oncologist who will remain nameless?" she asked dryly. "Your remarks about me, your overcompensation when you made certain we knew you weren't gay and went out of your way to salivate over Cuddy like a Pavlovian dog, and your constant remarks about watching lesbian sex."

"You mean it wasn't my incredible fashion sense and my like for daytime soaps?" House inquired, shaking his head as if throwing long, non-existent 'Fabio" hair over his shoulder.

"Well, the soap operas didn't help your case for being straight," Thirteen told him, appearing to be trying to hide her amusement at his antics. "Neither did sneaking looks at other guys' asses on occasion."

"He _does_ like his men in tight-fitting jeans," Clee said, announcing his return and carrying a beverage tray with two drafts and two sodas; he set it down on a table just behind their lane. He winked at House. The diagnostician couldn't hide his amusement. He allowed his eyes to appreciate one of the best examples he'd seen in a long time as its owner leaned forward to hand Chase his beer and Thirteen her ginger ale. Clee handed House his soda and then leaned in to give him a quick kiss on the mouth, teasingly touching the older man's lip with the tip of his tongue. House choked back a groan. Whose _stupid _idea was it to go bowling anyway?

"Who doesn't?" Thirteen agreed with a grin.

"Uh, _me!_" Chase spoke up, blushing a little. "Justin, you're up first, then Remy, followed by House and then me."

Clee got up from his seat, grabbed a ball and then lined up his shot. He was just letting go when House wolf-whistled at him. The younger man missed the strike, leaving the four, seven, eight, and ten pins standing. When he turned around to grab another ball House quickly looked at something _fascinating_ on the ceiling, pointing at Chase discretely.

"Oh yeah, _right_," Chase responded cynically, rolling his eyes. "Seeing as I'm the _only straight_ person in our group it _had_ to have been _me_."

Scowling at House indulgently, Clee said to him, "Just see what _I_ do to _you_ when it's your turn to bowl."

House simply gave him his best innocent look he had—which, surprisingly, was quite convincing if one knew nothing at all about him. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Uh huh," Clee responded, obviously unconvinced. He set up his second shot and rolled, this time with no comment or sound from the peanut gallery behind him. He made the spare and then returned to his seat, smiling with satisfaction. He looked at House, a look of devious intent in his eyes that made the diagnostician both very curious and a little nervous. _What is he plotting?_ House wondered.

Thirteen threw next despite someone coughing just before she let go of the ball. She ended up with a seven-ten split. She turned around, glaring at all three of the men seated.

"Tough luck," Chase told her with false empathy, the corners of his lips tugging up slightly. "Perhaps next frame will be better."

Thirteen scowled competitively at him. "This frame with do just _fine_—oh, and whatever you do to try to distract me won't work," she told them smugly. "I'm on to you."

She grabbed her second ball. House noticed a slight spasm with her hand but doubted anyone else did; he just happened to be at the right angle. It delayed her delivery a moment or two. She sent her ball down the alley heading for the ten-pin, but it was going a little off, threatening to gutter just before the ball made contact. In the last eighth of a second before it did it curved just slightly, hitting the pin and sending it to the left and back but the angle was wrong to use it to hit the seven—until the ball at the back seemed to hit something or backspin just enough to come back and push the moving ten into a different trajectory, causing it to take out the seven as well. House had never seen a seven-ten conversion quite like that before.

When Thirteen returned to her seat she looked smugly pleased with herself. Clee started to laugh and Chase shook his head in dismay.

"Lucky shot," the intensivist grumbled. "You couldn't repeat that in a million frames."

"Maybe," she replied, raising an eyebrow, "Maybe not. You'll never know for sure. You're up, hotshot."

Chase rose confidently, finding his personal bowling ball that he'd brought with him. He did a little dance as he delivered but before he released there was a whisper that said, "Nice ass." It wasn't soon enough to throw him off and he got his strike but when he turned around he glared at Thirteen.

"Nice try," he told her snidely but she had the smile of someone in on an inside joke that the intensivist wasn't privy to.

"Wasn't me," she told him. House had to hide a grin at the way Chase's face paled slightly and he made certain not to make eye contact with either House or Clee.

"Not funny," he muttered nearly under his breath. Thirteen wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

"Cheer up, Chase. At least you know that if the thing with women doesn't pan out you still can find a date," she told him, unable to completely hide her glee.

"Remind me again why I asked you to join me tonight?" he asked her cynically. "Oh, yeah, it was so you could tease _House_, remember?"

"I'm an equal opportunity teaser," she quipped with a wink.

The rest of the game carried on good naturedly. While House would have preferred spending the evening with just Justin he had to admit to himself that the double date wasn't as bad as he had expected. In fact, it was actually okay. He enjoyed seeing Justin getting along so well with people from House's past; he loved the sound of his laugh. It almost made him laugh just hearing him. For a little while that evening the diagnostician forgot about the creep threatening Hutton and her family and the call from Mrs. Wilson. He wasn't yet fully comfortable socializing, still preferring his privacy and he didn't like sharing Justin's time with others. However, as far as evenings went, this one was far preferable to how he used to spend his evenings; alone eating ibuprofen, soaking in a scalding hot bath with a glassful of scotch or bourbon, fantasizing about a shot of morphine in his spine and how good it would feel not to be at a four to a five when he woke up in the morning and an eight when he got home at night.

House noticed the interaction between Chase and Thirteen. There were no public displays of affection or obvious flirtation between them but they genuinely appeared to be enjoying each other's company, laughing and joking in a way he hadn't noticed before. It was good to see Chase genuinely smiling without being pissed out of his mind on booze. The intensivist had been in a permanent state of depression since Cameron had walked out on him, something House had a little experience of himself, from when Stacy had walked out on him when the going got rough. Though he would never say it to him, House was glad to see the younger man moving on. At the end of their time bowling Chase was the big winner, of course, Thirteen coming in second, much to her glee, and then House and Clee respectably. House blamed his not winning by being distracted by—what else?—his lover's ass.

After bowling they went for pizza. House's leg had held out alright during the physical activity since the endorphins from having sex right before meeting at the bowling lanes were still present and his attention was distracted from most of the pain by the game. Now, however, it was beginning to really ache. He knew he would have to excuse himself before long. Also, he had little appetite because he was beginning to feel nauseous. He did his best to keep it to himself so as not to ruin the evening for Justin.

"So, Chase," House said when there was a pause in the conversation, "you said earlier today that you had a suggestion for someone to fill the opening of a position in the department. Care to share it?"

Chase looked a little self-conscious; he obviously wasn't prepared for that question. "Uh, er, um…" he vocalized.

House was feeling strangely magnanimous and decided to save his employee. He turned to Thirteen. "Come to work for me."

The woman looked genuinely surprised, blinking a couple of times. "I already have a job," she told the diagnostician tentatively.

"Oh, come on," Chase interjected, rolling his eyes, "you told me yourself that the board at Princeton-Plainsboro was going to be voting on whether or not to get rid of the diagnostics department and it looked like it was going to end up being for turfing it. You're sticking around there out of some misplaced loyalty to Foreman, seeing as currently the two of you _are_ the entire department."

"I'm not sticking around for Foreman," she responded, picking at a slice of pizza. "The truth is I don't know what I want to do next. I've still got quite a few items on my bucket list to strike off."

"Bucket list?' Clee echoed, appearing puzzled. "Aren't you a little young to be worrying about that?"

She sighed and gave him a sad smile, answering, "I have Huntington's chorea. I'm already symptomatic."

"Your symptoms are still extremely mild," Chase objected. "There is no way to know how quickly the disease will progress. You could have twenty-years left!"

"Or less than ten," she pointed out quietly. "My symptoms became apparent before I was thirty. There is evidence in the research to suggest that the younger the age of onset, the faster the progression of the disease. Most people become symptomatic between ages thirty-five to forty-five. In the past two years I went from being asymptomatic to experiencing chorea severe enough to begin affecting my ability to perform fine motor tasks—like lumbar punctures, for example. Sometimes I'm fine, but it's become more frequently that I'm not. I've also been experiencing some…psychiatric symptoms of late."

"Depression," House stated. It wasn't a question. He'd noticed the moments earlier that evening where she had let her mask slip, looking sad and tired.

She nodded. "I've been on them for three months now and they only do so much these days. Also, I've noticed a subtle deficit in abstract thinking and episodic memory. So far it's not severe, but it could become a problem if things progress quickly. Medication helps a little, as does circuit training and physiotherapy but there's no way to know how long they will remain effective. I don't want my disease to be the cause of a mistake with a patient that could kill them. Part of what I was doing during my leave of absence was the physical requalification for my medical license. I passed, this time. It doesn't change my misgivings."

"It's not like you would be working all alone," Chase insisted. "You'd be part of a team. If there was a procedure you felt uneasy about then someone else on the team could do that. What are you going to do—passively let the symptoms overtake you while working in the damned clinic or do as much as you can in your career for as long as you can? House, tell her."

House shrugged, understanding both perspectives. He wasn't certain what he would choose to do in her place. At one point he would have said fuck it and moved to some tropical paradise, remain perpetually stoned and have as much sex as he could for as long as he could. That was before he actually had a life outside of Wilson, his puzzles and the endless pain. Now…now he had other reasons to keep fighting the bastard disease as long as he could. However, the prospect of losing one's executive cognitive functions and memory and ending up in a state of dementia was a frightening prospect.

"The offer stands, but the choice is hers," the diagnostician said quietly, rubbing at his aching thigh under the table as he did.

Thirteen gave him a small appreciative smile. "Can I have until Monday to think about it?"

House dipped his head once in the affirmative. He felt Clee touch his ruined thigh with a feather-light caress and give him an inquisitive look.

"How bad is it?" he whispered into House's ear.

The older man's first impulse was to tell him that he was fine, his usual response. However, it was hurting badly enough that he knew that answer would only remain credible for a few minutes more. Tiny beads of perspiration were already breaking out on his brow and upper lip.

"Bad," he mouthed in reply.

That was all Clee had to hear. "Well, I have an early day tomorrow, so I should probably call it a night. It was very nice to meet you, Remy. I hope we get to talk again."

"Me, too," she replied with a nod. The surgeon stood up first and put on his light jacket then discretely stood where House could grab him or vice versa should his leg give out but made no verbal or physical gesture to help him. House was very appreciative of that. He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth and levered himself up from his chair using the table and his cane. The pain was nearly unbearable and he could feel sweat roll down his back in small rivulets. A wave of nausea hit him but he willed it away, not wanting to end up vomiting in front of everyone in the restaurant. Clee helped him with his leather jacket and then wrapped an arm around House's waist, which could easily be taken as a gesture of affection as well as a precaution to help the diagnostician as they made their way to the car.

Since Clee had asked House out that evening, he paid, but House was no longer going to take advantage of people the way he had before. Well, some people were exceptions—Chase for one—but he didn't want to taint his relationship with Clee the same way he had with Wilson. When House initiated the date, _he_ paid. The fact that House preferred to stay home most of the time was simply a coincidence.

"Sit down on the bench by the door," the surgeon told him quietly, directing them toward it. "I'll go bring the car around."

"No," House objected firmly. He didn't want to appear to be the cripple he was. "We'll walk to the car together."

"Greg," Clee began to protest but upon looking at the determination on his lover's face he stopped and nodded. They stepped outside. The rain had started shortly after they had arrived at the restaurant and still came down steadily. They moved deliberately towards the car.

"You're too stubborn for your own good," Clee told him sternly.

"Just because I'm a cripple doesn't mean I want to be treated like one," House retorted a little more sharply that he'd intended. He was in pain and had no patience for anyone or anything when it flared like it was.

"Is that what you think I was trying to do?" the surgeon demanded, frowning.

"Perhaps not intentionally," House conceded, "but essentially, yes."

"The only thing crippled about you is your ego," was the quick, angry reply. "I'm fully aware of the fact that you can move yourself from point A to point B on your own. I also know that your pain is hovering around what?—an eight or a nine? Unnecessary extra use will only make it worse. Just because someone cares enough about you to want to protect you from unnecessary suffering does not mean they're treating you like a cripple. You're no different from the rest of us, Greg."

"What do you mean by that?" House demanded defensively.

They reached the car. Clee unlocked the doors with his key fob and opened House's door but made no attempt to help him get in. With a groan House managed on his own, slamming the door shut. Sighing in exasperation the surgeon rounded the vehicle to the driver's side and got in.

"You're not Hercules or any other demi-god, my dear," he picked up the conversation again as he did up his seat belt and started the car. "You're not impervious to pain, age, injury or sickness. You're just a mere mortal like the rest of us. You don't have to hold yourself to an unreasonable standard just to prove you're just as good as if not better than the rest of us. We all need help sometimes. When I look at you I don't see a cripple. I see a brilliant, creative, sensitive, sexy man that I've had a crush on since the first time I saw him across a hotel ballroom at a medical conference. I see someone who spent too many years of his life being underappreciated and in pain because of something that was beyond his control; yet someone with the courage to pick himself up and keep going in spite of that. When are you going to figure out the fact that you are worthy of being loved and cared for and just accept it?"

The surgeon didn't look at him for a while and they drove in silence. House could see that the younger man was angry but there was more to it than that. He was hurt as well. Feeling a little like a creep House said nothing, not certain what to say to make the situation better. He stared out the window, reflecting on similar words spoken to him in the past. Stacy, Wilson, Nolan, Hutton and now Clee—they all have told him the same thing, but for some reason he simply couldn't find the ability in himself to believe them. They didn't know the real Gregory House, the one that only he knew and even then didn't know completely. Yet, they all had seen something in him that he could not see and perhaps it wasn't they who were blind, but _him_. To acknowledge that meant trusting their assessments of him without being able to observe the evidence himself. Trust and he had never gotten along very well.

However, he had trusted Hutton to be there for him and believe that things would get better when he couldn't do it himself, and they had. So it was possible that there were instances when trust proved to be worth the risk of being let down.

House looked at Clee again. He sighed silently, still gripping his thigh, now with both hands.

"Justin," he said softly.

Hesitantly the younger man glanced in his direction every so often as he tried to keep his eyes on the road as well.

"Yes, Greg?"

House searched for the words he wanted then settled for the ones he was capable of coming up with. "I can't see in myself the things you see…but I can try to trust that you're telling the truth and let you see them for both of us until I am able to see them on my own." He waited anxiously for a response, feeling incredibly bare and vulnerable and hating every second of it. Clee seemed to be considering what he said. When they hit a red light he took the few seconds to look at House. His features had softened considerably. Reaching out with his right hand he caressed House's cheek with the back of his slender fingers.

"Okay," he murmured. "We can try that, but you have to make the effort to _learn_ how to see it on your own."

House nodded.

When they reached his house Clee parked his car in the garage and then went around to offer the diagnostician help should he require it. House managed to get his legs out of the car but he knew there was no way he could stand on his own. _Trust_, he told himself. He looked at Clee.

"If you could give me a hand up…?"

With a small smile the surgeon gave him a hand to his feet.

"Thanks," House told him, looking down at the floor.

"Anytime," he was told. "There is _no way _I'm going to allow you to ride your bike home in this weather with that leg, so even if I have to sedate you you're going to be staying here tonight."

House wasn't about to argue. He tried to head for the door leading into the house on his own but his knee buckled as excruciating pain caused him to cry out and even sob a little. Clee wrapped one of House's arms over his shoulder and half-carried him inside, not even stopping to close the door behind them. They headed directly to the bathroom. Once there the younger man drew the bath and then rubbed House's back gently when he had to vomit into the toilet, heaving long after his stomach was empty. The surgeon helped him clean up a little and rinse his mouth out with mouthwash to get rid of the vile taste; he then began to undress House as House leaned his forehead against Clee's shoulder, panting lightly.

Carefully he helped House into the hot bath. The older man immediately began to relax some as the wet heat began to ease the cramping in his thigh. The younger man found House's ibuprofen in the leather jacket and gave then to him with a glass of water. Once that was done, the surgeon left the bathroom for about a minute. House could hear him close the door to the garage and lock it. He returned quickly and began to undress as well. House watched with what interest he was capable of, in spite of the pain.

"Good idea," he told Clee approvingly. The bathtub was more than large enough for the two of them. Clee stepped in and carefully sat down behind House, taking extra caution not to jar his leg.

"Just lean back against me," he told House softly, gently pulling him closer. House did so and eased against him as best as he could, resting his head on his lover's shoulder. He groaned a little in relief. Wrapping his arms around House Clee held him close in an embrace, nuzzling his face against the other man's and applying gentle kisses as well.

House allowed himself to relax as much as he was able. The pain gradually dropped from an eight or nine to a five and once the ibuprofen kicked in he'd be around his normal four. It felt so good to be held and gently kissed without any expectations, demands, or ulterior motives.

"When do you see Ruth again?' Clee murmured as one of his hands rubbed circular patterns on House's chest and abdomen, earning moans of appreciation rather than pain.

"Next Wednesday," House told him. "In the meantime letters outlining her treatment plan were sent to the State licensing board, Roth, Nolan and Hutton. I should be hearing from them soon after. I don't anticipate much resistance from Roth, or even Hutton, but Nolan…" He sighed.

"He can't stop you from receiving treatment," Clee told him, an edge forming in his voice. "It's medically necessary."

"I signed an early discharge contract with him," the diagnostician pointed out, trying to hide the pessimism he felt. "I agreed not to use any intoxicating substances including opiates. If I break that contract he'll Baker Act my ass back into Mayfield. Also, he'll notify the licensing board. If he doesn't agree to the treatment program, I'm out of luck."

House could feel Clee's muscles tense up behind him. Knowing the surgeon's hatred for the psychiatrist he anticipated his reaction to that news.

"That son of a bitch had better agree to it—"

"Or what?" House cut him off. "My boyfriend will beat him up?"

"Don't tempt me, Greg," Clee responded, the anger in his voice not aimed at him. "I'll be damned if I stand back and watch him hurt another person I…care about. If he doesn't agree he'd better watch his back."

House frowned. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Damned right I am," the younger man answered fervently. Clee took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He combed his fingers through House's hair and kissed his temple. "You've suffered too much unnecessary pain in your life. You have a right to seek relief that is medically monitored by a specialist in the field."

"Well, we'll see. I may be wrong about him," House told him, hoping to quell his lover's ire, despite the fact it made him feel good to know that someone cared enough about him to physically fight for his well-being. He didn't want Clee to do anything that could turn around to bite him in the ass. He wanted to protect him, too.

**Thursday, June 24, 2010; 11:49 P.M.**

Unable to sleep, House carefully crawled out of bed so as not to wake his sleeping lover. He found his cane leaning against the bedside table where Clee had put it for him and grabbed it. With his legs hanging over the edge of the bed he took a deep breath and tentatively placed his right foot onto floor and applied a little weight. His thigh hissed at him, but the pain was bearable. He gradually stood, taking it slow until he was on his feet; so far so good. He took a couple of steps and his pain held steady around a six. Satisfied that he could make it to the living room he limped out the bedroom and shut the door behind him as quietly as he could.

Once in the living room he located Clee's laptop on the small desk in the corner. He sat down at the desk, turned on the lamp and opened the Macbook Pro*, starting it up and entering the password he'd seen the surgeon enter. He brought up the browser and began to pull up Wilson's credit card statements for each card in no time. He'd memorized all of the account numbers in the past and even though the oncologist had recently changed his passwords House had easily cracked them using his knowledge of the way his former friend and would-have-been lover thought.

He scanned the most recent transactions for clues as to where Wilson could have gone. He found what he was looking for on the platinum Visa account. It was for the on-line purchase of a plane ticket, business class to Houston, dated June twelfth, just two days after he had cut ties with the diagnostician.

_Texas?_ House questioned silently, bewildered. Why would he have gone to Texas of all places? Was he there for a job interview? He couldn't think of any other reason for Wilson to go there. He continued to go through the statement, troubled by the number of liquor store purchases before Texas and one after. Wilson had travelled there on the fourteenth, apparently, because there was an airport restaurant charge for twenty dollars on the fourteenth and then next transaction was for a car rental charge from the airport Budget. The amount paid indicated that the rental was for a couple of days unless Wilson had managed to get a good deal. There were a couple of small purchases but significantly no hotel charges. Either he'd paid cash for a hotel room or he hadn't stayed at a hotel.

His answer to that came on the fifteenth. There was an eight thousand dollar charge made to Silver Springs Treatment Center. The word 'treatment' caused House's breath to catch as he pondered what kind of treatment was offered there. Part of him was hopeful, the other part anxious.

He quickly pulled up the Silver Springs website and immediately had a wave of relief buffet him. It was a residential addictions detox and rehabilitation center. The hospital offered several different programs that involved individualized and group treatment. Treatment teams included psychiatrists, clinical psychologists, psychiatric nurses, dietitians, occupational therapists, physiotherapists and social workers.

House felt himself tremble as muscles that had been tensed up due to emotional stress, since the call from Wilson's mother, relaxed. House quickly erased evidence of his searches from the web browser's history, signed off the computer and shut it down. He closed the laptop and then sat back in the chair as tears pricked his eyes. It was becoming apparent that his body needed the stress-relief found in crying. House turned off the lamp, moved from the chair to the sofa using the light streaming in the living room from the streetlamp outside to find his way; he sat down, using the backrest to support his head. He detested crying and the vulnerability that came from it. The fear of beginning to cry and then never being able to stop was very much a concern for him. Even so his body and raging emotions would not be denied. He tried to cry as quietly as possible but once he had opened the floodgate an inch the pressure behind forced them wide open and he began to cry hard. House laid down on the sofa, burying his head beneath a cushion in an attempt to both mute the sound and hide in shame.

He felt it when Clee sat on the sofa next to him and began to gently rub his back in silence. House felt humiliated to be found crying like a weak little baby but the simple comfort of the other man's hand felt incredibly good. House was discovering that he didn't have to be afraid of and avoid every form of touch as if the intention behind it was always hurtful or selfish. He did try to stop crying, however and gradually he felt himself calming down. Once he felt ready House pulled the cushion off of his head, wiped the tears off of his face with his hand and then sat up. He couldn't bring himself to look at the surgeon right away. Clee seemed to understand that; he simply sat there quietly; his hand still rested on House's back, and waited.

Taking a deep breath and releasing it quickly, blowing out what remained of the tension, the diagnostician decided to speak, still not looking at the other man.

"I'm so screwed up. Sorry for waking you."

"Don't worry about it," Clee told him mildly. "And if you're screwed up then I'm a raving lunatic. You're not the only man who cries from time to time. Want to talk about it? Is it your leg?"

"No," House answered, sighing, "to both questions."

"Okay," Clee acknowledged, nodding. "How about some Chamomile tea? It's calming."

House shook his head. "No. He looked up at his lover. "Go back to bed. I'll be there shortly."

Nodding again, the surgeon combed his hand through House's hair, leaned in and kissed him tenderly. House returned it just as tenderly. Clee pulled back, gave him a small, fond smile and went back to the bedroom.

House watched him go. He was incredibly lucky to have him. That was why his mixed feelings for Wilson caused him as much guilt as they did. Sure, the oncologist was getting help for his drinking but that didn't mean his feelings for House would be any different from the day he dumped him. Until he knew otherwise, House had no logical reason to believe that anything between him and Wilson had changed. Here House had a man who valued and respected him, cared deeply for him, didn't judge him or lecture him. He was patient, tender, funny, talented, highly intelligent, handsome, sexy, and incredible in bed. At least so far he didn't bore him either. He had his skeletons in the closet which kept the older man engaged mentally as well as physically and emotionally in their relationship.

No, House decided again, I can't screw this up. This was the best adult relationship he'd had since Stacy and he was…satisfied. House was leery of using the word happy, partly because it had been so long since he had ever felt that emotion that he wasn't certain what happy felt like anymore. There was also the fact that he was almost superstitious about claiming anything too positive in his life for fear of having it turn sour as soon as he did. Satisfied was all he was able to commit to at that point. It was a hell of a lot better than miserable.

With a sigh the diagnostician slowly rose to his feet and limped back to bed. He dry swallowed some ibuprofen from the bottle on the bedside table before lying down. A moment later he felt a body shift closer to him without crowding him and a long arm wrapped lightly over his waist. House allowed himself a smile; with his tension cried out he was able to fall asleep within minutes.


	43. Chapter 43 Part 3 Ch 9

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **~8000

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Nine: Friday, June 25, 2010; 8:54 A.M.**

House's motorcycle pulled up into Hutton's driveway. Already parked up by the house was a familiar vehicle. He parked his bike next to that car, carefully climbed off, left his helmet with the bike and grabbed his cane from its holder. He'd been called on his cellphone at seven thirty by Hutton, asking him if he could meet with her and Nolan at her place at nine. When asked she had admitted that she and Nolan had received their letters from Dr. VanLuten and they wished to meet with him as soon as possible to discuss it. He hadn't wanted to meet with Nolan present but had known that he couldn't avoid him forever. House had decided not to tell Clee about the subject of the meeting, instead just telling him he had a session with both of them. His lover wasn't pleased that Nolan was going to be there but had done a good job of keeping it to himself.

House limped up to the front door. His pain level was about a six, a little higher than usual, causing him to put more weight on his cane than usual. That in turn put extra pressure on his right shoulder which had been bothering him lately. He hadn't mentioned it to anyone yet, but he was a little concerned that his shoulder may require a joint replacement soon.

He knocked lightly on the door with his cane. He could hear piano scales being practiced inside. The door was opened by David who simply held it open for him and then walked away. Stephania looked up briefly without stopping her playing to see who it was, smiled, and then returned her attention to the scales. House walked up to the piano. He remembered that as a kid he hated practicing his scales because they were so boring. His mind would drift off and he'd soon find himself composing little ditties much to his mother's irritation. Stephania looked as bored as he had felt.

"Are they in the study?" he asked her. She nodded and stopped playing.

"I don't know what you did, Dr. House," she said to him with warning in her eyes, "but Dr. Nolan arrived looking very serious and kinda…I don't know…not really angry but kind of, if that makes any sense."

House nodded grimly. "Thanks for the warning."

"When I get in trouble, I use the defense that my pre-frontal cortex isn't fully developed yet so it's not really my fault if I do stupid, impulsive things," the fifteen year old told him.

House smirked in amusement—how many teenagers even knew what the pre-frontal lobe was and that they had one. "Does it work?"

Stephania shrugged. "Sometimes; I figure that by the time it's fully developed I'll be too old for Mom to ground anymore. I think you may be a little too old to use that excuse though. Sorry."

House gave her a small smile and continued on towards the study. The door was shut and he could hear voices talking on the other side by they were too muffled by the door to be intelligible. With a silent sigh he knocked and opened the door enough to peer in.

"I'm here for the Inquisition," he told the two psychiatrists who sat inside. Neither of them looked happy which he figured didn't bode well for him. Obviously they hadn't found his joke all that amusing.

"Come in, House," Hutton told him, giving him a small, strained smile. House entered the room and shut the door behind him. Hutton was seated on the sofa and Nolan sat in the armchair. He sat down on the opposite end of the sofa, his cane upright between his legs, his hands resting on the handle. Nolan looked at him with his 'serious' face but said nothing. On his lap was a file folder.

"Let's skip the pleasantries," House said a little sarcastically, trying to hide his anxiety, "and get to the nitty-gritty. I saw Dr. VanLuten on the recommendation of Dr. Clee concerning my _incessant, nagging, brain-numbing pain _which has only been amplified in the short-term by the surgical procedure I underwent a few weeks ago. The ibuprofen doesn't come close to relieving it; it barely takes off the edge. In fact, it has never relieved it, thus refuting the opinion of some that my pain was due to long-term opiate use and conversion disorder. In the past two weeks I've had three pain attacks in the range of eight to nine. It leaves me exhausted, nauseated and weak. Hot baths, a heating pad and elevation just don't cut it. Those are extremely temporary stop-gaps. My average daily pain level is about a five depending upon the day, how much walking or standing I have to do, the weather, and stress.

"Dr. VanLuten has suggested a carefully administered and monitored pain regimen involving intrathecal injections of opiate medication combined with prednisone, amitriptyline, ibuprofen, physiotherapy, and trigger-point injections. She's aware of the fact that I was dependent on Vicodin for years and that the high dosage I was taking before detoxing was causing opiod psychosis. It's all in the treatment plan she sent you along with her recommendation that I should begin such therapy as soon as possible. Now it's your turn to tell me all of the reasons why I am not allowed to proceed with her recommendations."

House sat back, resting his cane beside him against the sofa. Absently he rubbed his thigh; the tension and anxiety he felt was causing his muscles throughout his body to tighten, including the ones left in his ruined thigh. He was moving to a seven and fleetingly thought that he might end up giving them a demonstration of just how much pain he was capable of experiencing if he didn't start focusing on trying to relax soon.

Hutton opened her mouth to speak but Nolan beat her to it. "Have you forgotten how hard you worked to overcome your addiction? If you proceed with this you'll essentially be back to square one. This regimen proposes close monitoring of opiate levels. As an addict, you can't be trusted to take the drugs as prescribed; you failed to do so when you were still taking Vicodin. You are currently in the process of reestablishing your career after a significant life change as well as recovering the ending of a long-time friendship, all after attempting suicide three times in one month. The stresses on you at this time are significant. The temptation to self-medicate your psychic pain will overwhelm you. I can't support this program."

Simply staring at the senior psychiatrist as he spoke, House maintained a mask of stoicism. Nolan's response was exactly what House had anticipated and having been prepared for it, had little impact on him. He now turned his attention to Hutton, who sat stiffly and had her jaw clenched. She had listened in silence, her eyes diverted to the floor the entire time.

"Your turn," House told her, trying to sound flippant but failing; as calm as he managed to pretend to be on the outside, inside he was very anxious about her response to Dr. VanLuten's pain management proposal. He needed her to agree, to be his advocate with Nolan. House was at the end of his rope with the pain. His spirit—as well as his body—simply couldn't take much more of it.

Hutton took a deep breath and released it slowly before she looked up at him. Her eyes were soft, warm even, though she appeared strained and stressed as far as the rest of her body was concerned.

"I would be lying," she began carefully, "if I said I didn't have my reservations. You are at a very vulnerable point in your life. You did develop a dependency on Vicodin which will return if you begin taking opiates again, but I think you're aware of that and that has been acknowledged by Dr. VanLuten. I'm also very familiar with pseudoaddiction as opposed to true addiction and do believe it's a real medical concern. I also know how much psychic damage can be done by improperly treated chronic pain. After reviewing your psychiatric record, notes made by both Dr. Nolan and me and a telephone conversation with Dr. VanLuten yesterday, I'm willing to admit that you may have never been addicted but pseudoaddicted. For those reasons I believe it's perfectly reasonable to proceed cautiously with Dr. VanLuten's treatment plan. My only conditions would be your agreement to continued psychotherapy, the completion of your outpatient program as previously referred to in your early release contract, your continued abstention from all intoxicating substances other than those prescribed by Dr. VanLuten according to her directions and random drug level testing by both Dr. VanLuten and us. Under those conditions I'd be willing to write a letter to the state licensing board to recommend this treatment program. However, if I ever suspect that you're allowing your medication to affect your life negatively I would immediately revoke my recommendation and invoke whatever legal means at my disposal to have you committed for drug rehabilitation."

"The drug testing-for how long?" House asked, his brow creasing slightly. He was pleased with her reaction but didn't want to be tested forever. He knew that he had to prove himself over the long-term but hoped that at some point in time he wanted to be trusted and given the benefit of the doubt.

"No less than one year," she told him, her tone leaving no room for negotiation on that. "It's in your best interest as well as mine."

House nodded. While he didn't like it, he realized that her conditions were reasonable. At least she was granting her approval—Nolan, predictably, was going to be an asshole and stand in his way.

"A split decision," the diagnostician said. "Who gets the deciding vote?"

Hutton and Nolan exchanged stern glances; they obviously had argued the issue before House had arrived and now there was tension between them.

"The state licensing board," Nolan told him. "Both Dr. Hutton and I will be sending letters voicing our opposing opinions for their consideration. We agree to abide by whatever their decision they make. Greg, I strongly urge you to reconsider this decision you're making. You've made too much progress to lose it now."

"I won't lose it," House told him, his anger rising despite his efforts to remain calm. "There are people who believe that I'm not an addict—something I insisted for years! I acknowledge that I was dependent on the opiates, but dependency is not the same thing as addiction. Others are placing their faith in me."

"Others…" Nolan commented, "like Justin Clee?"

House had suspected his relationship with Clee would be brought into this by Nolan. He was surprised it had taken this long for it to occur.

"Yes," House responded, cold blue eyes staring down the senior psychiatrist. "Do you take issue with that?"

Nolan smirked in that arrogant way he had when he believed he knew House's feelings, thoughts and motivations better than the diagnostician did. Sometimes that had proven to be true, particular at the beginning of his association with the therapist. Now House had a pretty good handle on what he wanted and why.

"I am concerned that your relationship with him was impulsive and ill-advised," was the response as Nolan cast Hutton an accusing glance. She appeared unphased by it. "Also, there are things about Dr. Clee that I'm certain you're unaware of, things which are not the healthiest—"

"Cut the bullshit!" House snapped coldly, cutting him off. "I know about Charlie. I also know how you ignored Justin's concerns and warnings until it ended with Charlie killing himself. I know how you've refused to accept any responsibility and actually blamed Justin, at Charlie's memorial no less, for his depression. I also know how much Justin hates you and how he threatened you right after you taunted him that way. If you'd done that to me I wouldn't have threatened to hurt you—I would have laid you out like a rug right there and then. Yeah, I know. I've also seen the original letter Justin sent you concerning Charlie's decline, sent by registered mail, which you accepted and signed for. You were just as unwilling to admit that you may have been wrong about Charlie as you are now with me!"

"Greg," Nolan interjected calmly, but the muscles in his jaw and neck were tensed up and his eyes were piercingly angry, "he is influencing your view of both me and therapy in general and that could cause instability—"

"Justin is a _stabilizing_ force in my life," House continued, lowering his volume. "He believes in me and shows me that in his actions. He's sat up with me all night while the pain was a nine-ten; it took every ounce of strength I had not to scream and tear my own leg off or call up an old dealer I used to know to score Vicodin and take three or four to get rid of the agony. He spent hours that night helping me in and out of hot baths, massaging my fucking leg trying to get the knots out. But you're right—your lying mouth is much more reliable than his actions!"

Nolan rose to his feet, quiet but infuriated, giving House a chilling glare. He looked at Hutton and said, "I believe we're done here. I'll be in contact."

She didn't get up, but returned his glare with a somewhat defiant stare of her own. "Very well."

Nolan nodded and then left the study. House stared at the back of the chair Nolan had just vacated, avoiding her gaze. He worked at regulating his breathing in order to calm down.

"I…should have controlled my temper better," he murmured awkwardly.

She moved closer to him on the sofa and placed a hand on one of his. This caused House to look up at her.

"I think you did quite well," she told him with a smirk. "Better than I did just before you arrived today. He dealt you a low blow when he brought up Justin that way. He had no right to do that. This issue has nothing to do with Justin."

"Thanks," he said quietly, beginning to relax but even so his leg pain wasn't abating.

Nodding, Hutton said, "I called Dr. VanLuten and while speaking with her she suggested that the more health professionals you can get to support your position before the state board the better. Justin, being involved with you now, can't be considered objective but I would talk to Dr. Timms about it and if he approves his letter of recommendation will be an influential one."

House nodded. "Good idea," he acknowledged, then sighed and rubbed at his thigh vigorously. He pulled out his ibuprofen and dry-swallowed a couple.

Hutton noticed and frowned. "How bad is it now?"

"About a seven," he told her. "Last night it was a solid eight going on nine. It's happening more and more frequently."

"Could it be due to a complication from your surgery?" she asked, growing concerned. "Perhaps a new embolus has formed?"

House shook his head. "I had it scanned again since the surgery—Justin thought the same thing was possible, but nothing turned up. I've been on my leg quite a bit over the past couple of weeks. That could account for it."

Nodding, Hutton said, "I really hope you get the approval you need, House." She smiled slightly. It was sly and he knew he was going to regret not leaving immediately after Nolan had.

"What?" House asked her, raising an eyebrow.

"I think it's great that you have Justin as a support," she told him sincerely. "The relationship you described to Nolan sounded so…"

"Don't say it," House told her, knowing what she was going to say. He closed his eyes.

"…sweet!" she finished, her smile now crossing her entire face. House groaned and rolled his eyes in derision.

"I _hate_ that word," he told her, frowning, "especially when it pertains to anything concerning me."

"But it _is_," she insisted with a small giggle. "I can't wait until the BBQ when I get to see the two of you together. I want pictures."

His eyes widening, he told her, "No, absolutely not! Justin's not a freak show and neither am I."

"You just defended him before yourself," she pointed out enthusiastically. "That's so—"

"If you say sweet or anything else that will cause tooth decay I'm out of here and I won't come to your spectacle at all," House warned her crossly. He tried to appear as convincing as possible but the woman had an uncanny ability to see through his charades. She knew that he would attend if for no other reason than to see what Justin's surprise for the talent show was. He was also going to be present to keep an eye out for anyone fitting the description of Stephania's attacker. If he ever caught that son of a bitch he intended on giving him a prostate exam with the end of his cane.

"Party-pooper," Hutton responded. She eyed the diagnostician carefully before asking, "So what's wrong besides your pain?"

House fell back on his default response. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"No you're not," she said, calling his bluff. "What's going on?"

House glanced at his watch and rose to his feet, saying, "Oh dear, look at the time! Well, I'd better be going." He limped painfully to the door, gritting his teeth to keep himself from moaning.

"House!" Hutton called to him before he could escape the room. He sighed and looked back at her.

"Do I _have_ to talk about it?" he asked, almost whining. He wasn't in the mood for confessions or psychoanalysis. He had the day off because there was nothing more for him to do until Monday morning and all he wanted to do was to go home, take more ibuprofen, wrap his leg in a heating pad, put it up and watch what he'd recorded on TIVO over the week.

"Ah, so there _is _something," the psychiatrist picked up. She looked at him carefully one more time and her face softened. "You're in pain. Do you have to work today?"

He shook his head no.

"Go on home, then," she told him, "and take care of your leg. Call here if you need anything, okay? Don't try to be 'macho' and tough it out on your own if you need help. I'll be out for a while this afternoon but Linda will be here and Steph will be home around two from science camp. _Behave _yourself."

"Yes, _Mommy_," House replied snarkily, "I pwomise I'll be a good wittle boy." He left the study and headed for home. He didn't see the eye roll, shake of her head, and amused smirk Hutton gave him on his way out.

**(~*~)**

The first thing House did when he entered his place was to locate Wilson's parents' phone number. They lived in the same time zone so he figured it wasn't too early to call. Although he didn't owe the Wilson's anything House wanted to put their concern about their middle son to rest. He placed the call. When it was answered a male voice came over the line.

"Wilson residence, how may I help you?"

House had to smirk at the formality of the greeting. It was obvious where Wilson got some of his quirks from. "Mr. Wilson?"

"Yes?"

"This is Greg House, James's…friend," he told him.

"Yes, of course," the elder Wilson acknowledged in recognition. "My wife told me that she'd contacted you in hope that you could tell her where our son is. She told me that you didn't know."

"Yes," House confirmed, "at the time I had no idea where he was. After speaking with her I did a little investigating and I believe I've located him. Mid-June he flew to Houston."

"Houston? Why would he be there?" Wilson's father asked.

House sighed. He knew he would have to give a little history to the older man before revealing his son's location. He didn't relish this part and was tempted to simply leave it at that and hang up. He didn't know why he was even allowing himself to be drawn back into the oncologist's life again. James Wilson was like a drug, House mused, and having been addicted to him he seemed to be as inexorably drawn to him Vicodin—even more so.

"Over the past month and a half approximately James has been drinking very heavily," House explained grimly. "Mr. Wilson, it's my professional opinion that he's an alcoholic. On June ninth he was rushed to the hospital with a case of alcohol poisoning. He nearly died. Both I and a psychiatrist encouraged him to get help for his problem but at the time he refused to enter rehabilitation. I've just learned that a few days following that he flew to Houston to voluntarily admit himself into a residential addictions treatment center located there. I'm not privy to any information concerning his condition or program. I thought I should pass this information on to you. The treatment center is called Silver Springs. If you Google it you'll find it easily enough along with contact information."

"I see," Mr. Wilson said softly, keeping his voice even. "My wife told me that you and James are no longer friends. Is that because you think he's an alcoholic?"

House sighed internally. He wanted to be honest but he didn't want to go into any kind of detail.

"His behavior has been affected by the alcohol. After encouraging him to get help…he told me that we were no longer friends," House said carefully. "Time will tell whether that will continue to be the case. I didn't abandon him because of his drinking. He was there for me during my own issues with drugs and I would have been there for him had he allowed me to be."

There was silence over the phone for a few moments before the other man responded, "Thank you, Greg. We appreciate your help."

"Good luck," House said before hanging up. He took a few steadying breaths and then headed for the bathroom and yet _another_ hot bath.

**Monday, June 28, 2010; 9:00 A.M.**

Olivia Hutton sat behind her desk in her office at St. Luke's. It was her first day back to work and being there seemed to invigorate her again. She had been getting stir-crazy during her convalescence and had begged both Anderson and Roth to allow her to come back to work early if she agreed to working part-time for two weeks before gradually moving back to full-time. She was going through department memos and the charts of her patients that had been taken over by her colleagues in the department while she was away when she heard a knock at her office door.

"Come in," she said loudly enough to be heard on the other side. The door opened and she looked up to see Justin Clee enter with a small bouquet of lavender and Shasta daisies.

"Welcome back," he said with a smile, closing the door behind him. She stood up and rounded her desk to meet him. "Just a little something to mark the day." She took the bouquet already placed into a pretty glass vase and turned it around, admiring it, grinning.

"Thank you, it's beautiful!" she told him, "How did you know I liked lavender and daisies?" Setting the flowers down onto her desk she then gave him a hug.

"You mean, besides the fact that you grow them everywhere on your property? I have no idea. Greg told me this was your first day back," Justin told her. "He said I'm supposed to tell you that at noon he's going to be waiting in the lobby to make certain you actually leave the hospital and go home."

Hutton rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Both Gage and he have been hovering over me since I was discharged from the hospital. I've heard of being overprotective but this is bordering on the obsessive."

"We're all concerned for your safety," he told her with a shrug, "especially after the scares you and Stephania have experienced lately."

Nodding, Hutton's smile faded a little. "I've had security at home updated and improved," she said with a sigh, "but so far, no more sign of the guy. I've considered the possibility that it may be a former or present patient of mine with some kind of grudge or obsession so I've been going over case files to see if I can spot anything that strikes a bell. Hey, do you have a few minutes? Have a seat."

"I've got about fifteen minutes," he agreed, sitting in one of the chairs before her desk before crossing one of his long legs over the other.

"Linda tells me you've got a surprise for us for this year's talent show," Hutton said as she took a seat, smiling and narrowing her eyes a little suspiciously. "Am I going to have to clear the minors out of the audience before you go on stage?"

Clee laughed out loud at that. "Well, darling, you know me—you never know what you're going to get so it might not be a bad idea to make certain that the kiddies are off doing something else."

"And you won't give me a hint as to what to expect?"

"Nope," Clee told her with a devious smile, "you'll just have to wait and see."

"Does House know?" she asked next, genuinely feeling a little frustrated at having to wait until the fourth to find out along with everyone else.

"Well," the surgeon answered, pondering that question, "he came across part of my costume without realizing what it was and teased me about it relentlessly but I don't think he's figured out it has to do with the talent show."

"Grrr!" she vocalized, both frowning and smiling. "I hate waiting!"

"A trait you and Greg have in common. You should be fun to be around at Christmas time and birthdays, then," Clee teased her. "I'm still waiting, you know."

Hutton looked at him, confused for a moment before realizing he was on to her and what she really wanted to talk to him about. He was quick on the ball—either that, or she was simply too predictable.

"Waiting for what?" she responded coyly. The surgeon simply looked at her with an arched eyebrow and remained silent until Hutton relented and admitted that he was right.

"Okay," she confessed, "I _am_ curious as to how things are going between you and House. I've seen you drive onto the acreage more in the past few weeks than ever before, and not drive off the property on the same day necessarily. House's neighbors are talking, you know."

"Well, knowing a little about his neighbors I'd be shocked if they weren't," he told her with a wink. "Let's see…what can I tell you that won't get you too hot and bothered to work after I leave…hmm…Everything is going fine."

"Oh please!" Hutton exclaimed. "That's House's line. You're the one who usually likes to embellish."

Clee chuckled, shaking his head. "Who, me? Alright, Liv. Everything is great. He's sexy, talented, funny, deep and probably the best lover I've ever had, with all due respect to Charlie, of course. He's probably the most…_genuine_ person I've ever known. He can be evasive and secretive, but so far not about anything important. He's really opened up to me this week. It's hard to believe that we've only been dating for two weeks. It seems longer than that—in a good way."

"You two _have _moved kinda fast," the psychiatrist pointed out.

"Well, fast is kind of the way we both do things. I was only dating Charlie for a month before I knew I was in love with him," Justin told her. "Greg and his former girlfriend Stacy moved in together after only a week or so. I guess if something is right it doesn't necessarily take long to realize it and once you do, well, life is too damned short to procrastinate."

Hutton thought about that. She didn't believe in love at first sight or anything like that but she had to concede that waiting for something just because there was a perception that there is a minimum amount of time that has to pass to make it legitimate or appropriate was ridiculous; After Marcus died she received a great deal of criticism for going out on a single date nine months later. It hadn't amounted to anything and she knew that Marcus wouldn't have wanted her to sit in mourning for the rest of her life, either. Who had the right to determine for another person the right time to do something? Life was short and too many of her clients battled with regrets and depression over opportunities and people lost because they had waited too long to act.

"So, what is your gut telling you, Justin?" she inquired. "Is it right between House and you?"

Clee didn't answer immediately, as if he was searching his soul for the answer. He smiled fondly.

"I think it is for me," he told her. "I think it is for Greg, too, but I can't be sure yet. He has a lot of baggage from his relationship with Wilson that he's still dragging around, although I think he wants to be rid of it. It doesn't help when the man's family calls Greg up to tell him that they can't find Wilson and asks if he knows where the man is. Apparently what Greg had been told about him was untrue. He was so disturbed by the call that he nearly had a panic attack and called me to talk him down, so to speak. He was very apologetic for allowing this with Wilson to get to him so badly wound up and told me that he just wanted to be done with him, and I believe him."

Hutton frowned slightly, absently tapping her chin with her pen. "I didn't know anything about that," she admitted. "The fact that he called you instead of me should be an indicator to you how much he trusts you."

Another fond smile and a nod answered her. "I know. He feels like he's a burden on me because of his mental health issues and his leg. I don't think he truly understands that I don't care about those things—or, rather, I care that they hurt him so much and I wish I could do something to help him, but it doesn't taint the way I view him. I like him, I enjoy being around him, and not just because he's great in bed. When I _can_ help him in little ways it makes me feel that much more connected to him. He's not a burden, Liv—he's a delight—even when he does lose his temper around me. It's only happened twice, and both times were during a pain attack where he was literally in excruciating pain. Anybody would be irritable under those circumstances."

She nodded. "I agree with you. You might try telling him what you just told me. His pain seems to be getting worse—it's troubling."

"Yes…and now thanks to that son of a bitch Nolan, Greg may not get the approval of the state licensing board," Clee said, contempt saturating his tone. "I swear I'll make him pay if he is the reason of further suffering for Greg."

"You don't mean that!" Hutton told him sternly. "You need to be very careful who you say that around. Uttering threats can get you into a heap of trouble and House needs you more on this side of jail bars than the other."

"I can't believe you're still defending that jerk—"

"I'm not," she told her friend quickly. "Quite frankly I'm very frustrated with Darryl's attitude when it comes to House. I was under the impression when he asked me to consult on House's case that he wanted the best for him, whatever that may be. Now I'm not. He's always been old school, and there's a time and a place for that. God knows I need a reminder from time to time to remain objective. But I've never known Darryl to be so stubborn and closed-minded as he is with House. For obvious reasons I can't detail examples of what I mean, patient confidentiality, you know. Justin, I understand your feelings about Nolan, how deep they run, and I'm not saying that you're not entitled to have your feelings, but you have to stay clear of him. He dislikes you about as much as you do him and reckless, impulsive threats around the wrong ears could get you arrested. I don't want to see that happen, okay?"

Reluctantly the surgeon nodded and then exhaled loudly, expelling most of his anger energy. "I care about Greg a lot, Liv. I'm…more than fond of him. I don't want for him to suffer or get hurt. I don't want a repeat of what happened with Charlie."

"Neither do I," she assured him gently. "Trust me, Justin. I won't let it go that far in House's case. I had no say over the treatment Charlie received from Nolan whatsoever, but I do with House."

Clee nodded and stood up smoothly. "I'm afraid I have to go prepare for an office appointment, so you escaped my prying into what's going on between you and Gage—for _now_; but I know where you live and I will get the juicy details out of you—emphasis on juicy."

Hutton laughed ruefully, "Justin you're a horn-dog."

"I know," he replied, wagging his eyebrows.

The psychiatrist stood up and went to him, giving him a hug, which he returned.

"Gawd, Sweetie!" he said to her in surprise, pulling back to look at her. "Go out for a few bacon-cheese burgers and milkshakes, will ya? You're as thin as a rail. Men like a little meat on the bone, trust me. That's why I started working out and enjoying carbs again! Gage has to have _something_ to hold on to when you two are gettin' it _on_!" He winked, causing her to blush.

"I'll try to remember that," she told him, blushing, as Clee left her office.

**Monday, June 28, 2010; 10:00 A.M.**

The same conference room that House and Chase had used for the job interviews was theirs to use until the Department of Diagnostic Medicine was ready to move into. Situated around the long table were the five doctors hired for the positions in the new department. They were aged twenty-eight to thirty-nine; four men and one woman. Chase arrived first, as planned. He looked over the faces; they were older than Chase was when he began the fellowship with House. They weren't looking to complete a fellowship, having already done so in their chosen specialties. House and Chase had chosen them because they had certain qualities that House figured he could utilize; the eclectic mix of specializations made available a broad spectrum of knowledge and expertise to draw upon.

Immediately to his right was Dr. Wade Preston, forty, raven-haired, square-jawed, no-nonsense epidemiologist. To Preston's right was Dr. Toni Ferry, thirty-one, a neuropsychiatrist. She was of average height and build with medium blonde hair pulled up into a messy bun. Dr. Peter Lao was next. He was twenty-eight and the youngest one present. He was slightly below average in height and build. His specialty was endocrinology. Prior to coming to St Luke's he had been working at the Stollery Children's Hospital at the University of Alberta in Edmonton, Canada. His focus had been diagnosing and treating children with growth and developmental problems. To Lao's right was Dr. Vince Scortia, age thirty-six, an immunologist with a second specialization in Internal Medicine. He was tall and dark, with the energy of two people in one. He had been telling a joke to his neighbor and continued to do so after the intensivist had entered the conference room. Finally there was Dr. Norma Bell, thirty-three, an oncologist; she was a statuesque woman with beautiful mocha-colored skin and around her was an atmosphere of calm and grace. Chase figured she was unflappable, capable of taking surprises in quick, efficient, composed stride. She sat silently listening to Scortia's joke, smiling politely as he illustrated his little story with his hands.

Chase sat down at the end of the table and this seemed to be the cue to the doctors to stop what they were doing and come to order.

"Good morning," the intensivist said with a hint of a smile on his face. "As you know, I'm Doctor Robert Chase and I'm Dr. House's assistant chief of diagnostics here at St. Luke's which basically means I'm his number one lackey."

There was a smattering of chuckles in the room at that.

"Don't laugh—that means you are his peons to be used and abused as he sees fit," Chase continued. "As long as you remember that you should survive; forget that and you're in for a long, hard haul. Today my job is to give you an idea of Dr. House's vision for the Department of Diagnostics and to warn you of what you can expect working for him."

Chase paused when the door opened. When Thirteen entered the room he smiled. So she had decided to take the offer after all; he couldn't help but feel relieved.

"Sorry I'm late," she said softly, her eyes scanning quickly the other faces in the room.

"No problem," he told her. She quickly took the chair next to Dr. Bell. To the others he said, "This is Dr. Remy Hadley. She worked for Dr. House at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital and will be completing her fellowship with him here.

"Dr. House is arguably one of the best and most influential diagnosticians in the world. He deserves that distinction. During your interviews you all told me that you at very least recognized Dr. House's name. Very few doctors in this country haven't," the intensivist told them, picking up where he'd left off. "Along with that is the fact that he knows he's a genius and one of the best so he has a professional ego to match. Frankly, Dr. House is an ass. He's sarcastic, cynical, acerbic, demanding, and misanthropic. If you don't want to strangle him after the first day working with him you likely belong in the Psych ward. If you ask him, he will proudly tell you that he's a miserable bastard. Eccentric doesn't adequately describe him or his methods. He will tell you to do things that may push you to your limits.

"There will be times when you will be challenged by his unique view of people and the world in general. He works by his own set of rules and code of ethics. He's not an anarchist. He believes that in life and practice rules are meant to be bent or broken when the rule prevents him from diagnosing a patient and providing the necessary treatment. In our line of work it is easy to focus on statistics and norms when most of House's patients end up being exceptions to the norm; in such cases rules become flexible for him.

"House is extremely hard on his employees and has very high standards. If he approved your hiring he believes you have the qualities that will best work with him and for him. Give him less than your best and you'll run the gauntlet, so to speak. If you work hard and are consistently on your game…he will mock and antagonize you, but not nearly as badly as he will if you give him less than your best. If you believe something different from him then you had better stand by it and have proof. If you back down or can't back your position then he will mock and degrade you for his own amusement; he won't fire you for disagreeing with him or calling him to task; in fact, he'll likely respect you more if you do.

"One of House's most treasured credos is that _everybody lies_. Patients and their families and friends will lie to you to protect secrets they'd rather nobody found out about even at the peril of their loved ones' lives. He will expect you to dig deeper than you are likely used to when getting a patient history or answers from the patient and the family and friends.

"For House finding a diagnosis is like solving a puzzle. Sometimes to find the missing pieces you have to do what it takes to find them and in his code of ethics not doing everything because it may be illegal or against the rules is unethical. Rules are made to be broken when they interfere with solving the puzzle. The solution to the puzzle—the diagnosis—is everything. So if you have a problem with that, this may not be the job for you.

"He is an advocate for his patients and he stands behind his 'ducklings' or 'kids', as he may call you, should the shit hit the fan—unless he feels you deserve it. Be loyal to him and he will be loyal to you. Betray him and you'd better watch your back.

"One thing to remember is that Dr. House's success rate far exceeds that of his peers as a result of his code of ethics. If I were dying from an undiagnosed illness, I would have no hesitation with him being my physician.

"Some further things you should know about House: first and foremost is the fact that he is in constant chronic pain. Some days his pain is worse than others and when it's bad so is his mood. He will lash out more. Don't take it personally. He has a distinct limp and limited motility. Whatever you do, never show him pity. He hates to be pitied by others and if he thinks you pity him he will eat you alive. Also, should he stumble or fall, don't rush in to help him without asking him. He doesn't usually accept help. Quietly offer it without attracting attention. If he wants it, he'll tell you.

"House usually doesn't meet his patients face to face, which is actually a good thing because he has a terrible bedside manner. I can't tell you exactly why he avoids personal contact with his patients because he hasn't felt it necessary to tell me. His employees are the ones who are in contact with the patients and families, who perform the tests, procedures and treatments. On rare occasions House will make contact with a patient for his own reasons. He will expect you to do almost all of the grunt work, too. So if you have a social life…well, you won't anymore—at least not while there's a case to be solved. He generally doesn't trust nurses and technicians to do a lot of the things they normally do with other doctors' patients; for example, the drawing of blood or other samples for testing and the administration of the prescribed medications. Don't ask me why."

"So if we're making all of the contact with the patients and doing all of the grunt work, what exactly does _he_ do?" Ferry demanded quizzically.

"He provides the genius," Thirteen spoke for Chase. "I wouldn't underestimate the value of that. He spends however long it takes at the hospital, going over all of the information we've collected as a team, until a diagnosis is found. We do most of the work that requires the ability to move freely and stand a great deal because of his disability. He pushes us to think and reason in ways we haven't before and believe it or not he does take our suggestions and knowledge seriously. Our contribution helps him to consider possibilities he hasn't yet and we're his sounding board."

"He doesn't accept every referral he receives, only the ones he feels are worthy of his expertise," Thirteen added. "When a new case arrives you will meet to perform an initial differential based on the symptoms and signs currently presenting. Based on that he will order the various tests and procedures he believes are necessary. He will frequently use treatments themselves as diagnostic tools."

"This is the time for you to show him what you know and how laterally you can think. From personal experience I can tell you that you will be challenged more than you ever have before but you will learn more as well," the intensivist said. "There will be two teams working in this department; Dr. House will be the final authority over both of them but he will be working directly with one team while I lead the other. If you're concerned that you'll miss out on working directly with him, don't worry. House and I will be switching teams every six months. Also, if you have a specialization that would be particularly useful to the other team you'll be called on to assist with that case. Not that I'm a hero or anything but you may find there are times when _not_ working with House directly is a bonus. Bring any major issues to me and I'll be your advocate to House—believe me, I'm doing you a big favor. Any questions?"

Looking from doctor to doctor Chase was amused by the varying expressions ranging from calm, cool and collected to shell-shocked to positively fearful but one thing they all had in common was a spark of anticipation in their eyes. He had no idea which of them would click best with House and which ones would be continually butting heads with him but he knew there would be both; it would be interesting to see how it all played out.

"Well, if there are no questions then I'll now give you your team assignments," the intensivist announced after waiting a minute or so for anyone to speak up. "House's team: Preston, Ferry and Bell. My team: Lao, Scortia, and Hadley. While our department is still under construction we'll be meeting here as a whole. My team will meet in my office for differentials and House's team will meet in his office, the morgue, an operating theater—pretty much anywhere he gets the whim to be. Trust me—you'll understand as time goes on. For the next couple of days our assignments are to go through the hundreds of referrals and form two piles: cases unique and puzzling enough that House will definitely take and those which he will possibly take if there's nothing else. Then take the possible referrals and garbage them. He'll pick through the ones we think he'll definitely take for the ones he actually will. You can pick up the stacks of referrals from my office following this meeting.

"Good luck," Chase wished them drily. "You're going to need it."


	44. Chapter 44 Part 3 Ch 10

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Ten: Wednesday, June 30, 2010; 7:22 P.M.**

House lay on the kitchen floor, his hands grasping his thigh, moaning in agony. For ten solid minutes he'd been screaming in pain but with the thunderstorm outside and his stereo playing in the living room no one would have been able to hear him all the way over to Hutton's house anyway. His voice had given out so now all he could do was gasp every time a new spasm hit his ruin thigh muscle sending lightening speed torture to his brain. He was nearly hyperventilating as well.

He'd been preparing dinner when the attack occurred. Clee was coming over for dinner as were Hutton and Anderson, a last minute idea of his. Being sociable was usually not House's style but his curiosity over what was going on with his shrink and the pediatrician has gotten the better of him—that, and Clee enjoyed things like dinner parties and the diagnostician had felt like doing something nice for him. Yes, nice. Every so often even House believed in a little kindness; he just didn't broadcast the fact. Clee was due to arrive in about fifteen minutes, Hutton and Anderson a little after that. With pain like the kind he was now enduring, House didn't know if he'd be conscious when they arrived.

The pain level was at least a ten, bordering on breaking the limit. His face was frozen with his eyes closed, his jaw wide open as if screaming but with no sound. House could barely think about anything beside the pain and how badly he wished he would pass out. His body was drenched with sweat, soaking his white t-shirt through to his sky blue button up. Rivulets streamed from his brow down his face, into his eyes, his mouth. Tachycardic, House knew that he was in danger of losing the proper rhythm of his heart and suffering a ventricular fibrillation. With no one around to help him, he would most certainly arrest and die. Justin would arrive to find him dead; so much for dinner.

The pain hadn't been this bad since before his breakdown and opiate psychosis. He was gasping for breath and beginning to feel lightheaded. It wouldn't be long now.

It was so ironic. He'd finally turned his life around and was actually living, and yes, for the most part _happy_. Of course that meant it would all have to end like this because House had never been lucky so why should he expect that to have changed?

He wasn't even certain how long he'd been on the floor. He could smell the béarnaise sauce he'd been preparing on the stove burning and wondered if there would be enough smoke to set off his detector. Since the security company had upped the security systems in both houses the smoke and carbon monoxide detectors were linked to the company's monitoring station they would receive the signal. The security company would then call the volunteer fire department from the nearby town. It didn't really matter though. By the time help arrived he'd be beyond resuscitation.

House felt his chest tightening and the blackness begin to envelope him. He didn't hear the detector alarm finally go off nor the front door open so quickly that it crashed into the wall. He didn't hear Clee shout his name or notice when the surgeon found him and ran to him. He didn't hear the call to the emergency dispatch nor did he feel Clee roll him over onto his back and away from the pool of vomit he couldn't remember bringing up. House had no idea that he had arrested as he predicted, nor that Clee had begun CPR, working on automatic pilot because his fear was making it impossible for him to think clearly enough to consciously act. He didn't even notice when Hutton and Anderson arrived and the pediatrician took over the chest compressions while Clee continued to breathe for him.

Awareness of anything didn't occur again until the paramedic arrived with the defibrillator and his heart was shocked back into action. He became aware of something on his face and hands rolling him onto a backboard, just to be safe, before lifting him onto the stretcher. House forced his leaden eyelids open and saw unfamiliar faces on people pushing him somewhere, and then onto an ambulance. His eyes slipped closed, and he must have been out for only a couple of minutes began when he opened his eyes again he saw a paramedic on one side of him, working on keeping him alive. On the other side he saw Clee watching the paramedic while holding his hand. House tried to squeeze the surgeon's hand hard to get his attention, but he had no strength and barely moved his fingers.

It was enough, apparently, because Clee looked down at him and then smiled in relief when their eyes met. The younger man leaned close to House in his attempt to hear what the older man was trying to tell him.

"What is it, Greg?"

"Was…," House said breathlessly, the sound of it smothered by the oxygen mask. Clee was able to read his lips, though. "Leg…pain so…bad…"

A frown crossed his lover's face. "Your leg pain caused this? Greg? Is it your leg?"

House wanted to respond by telling him yes but he was simply too weak and in too much pain to be able to form the words with his lips. He felt his eyelids closing again and this time he stayed out until much later, long after the ambulance delivered him to St. Luke's emergency room.

**(~*~)**

Hutton and Anderson had hurried to the hospital in the latter's car, arriving about ten minutes after the ambulance carrying House and Clee did. By the time they reached the ER they found the vascular surgeon standing outside of a curtained station talking with what appeared to be the ER attending on duty. Hutton didn't recognize her but that wasn't surprising; she hadn't been in the hospital for weeks and it was usually the Psych residents, not the Attending that responded to consults requests from the ER.

The expression on Clee's face was grim and he mostly listened to the other doctor explain to him what was happening with House. It was obvious he was more than shaken by the events of the past hour and Hutton was concerned for his well-being as well as the diagnostician's. Just as they reached Clee the attending was walking away, hurrying to another bay and another emergent patient.

"Justin," the psychiatrist said, rushing up and hugging him. Clee sighed, allowing her to hold him for a moment or two before she let go. "How is House?"

Clee looked from her to Anderson, giving the pediatrician a nod to acknowledge his presence before turning his attention back to her. "They've stabilized him," he told her, his voice quavering ever so slightly. "He's been given Toradol for the pain, Ativan for the anxiety and cyclobenzaprine* for the cramping. He will be going for an MRI of his leg in a few minutes to rule out clotting; his four pulses are strong, so a clot is unlikely; the MRI is just to be safe.** The EKG indicated stress on the heart muscle but no serious or permanent disease or defect. Unless something new appears in the next twelve hours he should be in the clear. He's being admitted overnight for observation and released tomorrow if no complications come up. He was awake and lucid for a few minutes earlier but the Ativan and Flexeril have put him to sleep, probably for the night."

"Well, that's a relief," Anderson said softly, looking exhausted himself. "So this was brought on by his leg cramping?"

Nodding, Clee gestured that they all should sit down in the waiting area to talk about what had happened. Once they were seated, he explained. "The cramping set off a cascade of pain that led to tachycardia and vfib." He rubbed his face with his hand. "If I—we—hadn't got there when we did, he wouldn't have made it. This, Liv, is _exactly_ what I was afraid of. Without proper pain management this will happen again and next time there may not be anyone around to help him in time. It's no longer an issue of pain treatment being elective; it's just become mandatory. Pain like he experienced tonight has and will continue to endanger his life unless intervention is made _now_—not six weeks from now when the licensing board reviews Greg's petition. If not for Nolan we could already have the blessing of the board and he could be receiving proper pain control as we speak!"

Hutton knew he was right. This had been too close a call. The image of Clee and Anderson performing CPR on House was burned into her memory. The terror she had felt was nothing, she was certain, compared to what the surgeon's must have been. House needed to start VanLuten's treatment regimen a.s.a.p. before another pain attack killed him.

"I think Nolan needs a wake-up call," she forcefully told the two men with her as she stood up. "I'll give Xander a shout as well. If anyone can light a fire under the licensing board with his connections, it's him. Justin, sweetheart, can I get you anything while I'm gone? Some coffee, water, maybe a bite to eat?"

Shaking his head, Clee told her after sighing, "No thanks, Liv. I'm fine. I'm going to check if I can see him again before they move him to ICU."

She nodded and looked to Anderson. "Coming with or staying?"

"Coming with," he replied, also standing. He put an encouraging hand on Clee's shoulder, squeezed once. The surgeon gave him a weak smile and nodded before rising and heading back to House's bay.

"Do _you_ want anything?" Anderson asked her. "I can grab you something from the cafeteria before it closes."

"Yeah," Hutton told him, nodding. She was trying to obey the nutritionist's diet even though most of the time she wasn't hungry. "Um, you know those ham and Swiss buns? I'll have one of those, some raw carrot sticks and partly-skimmed milk, please. I'm heading to my office to make the calls."

"No problem, "he told her, leaning in and giving her a gentle kiss before they parted. Hutton made her way quickly to her office on the sixth floor, just off of the Psych Wing. Once there she sat behind her desk, grabbed the phone and placed her first call.

"Hello?" the voice on the other end of the line was feminine.

"Hi, Betty," Hutton greeted somberly; she picked up and began to doodle on a scratch pad as was her habit while on the phone at her desk.

"Hi, Liv," the other woman said pleasantly. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better than before, thanks," Hutton told her. "Is Darryl around? It's urgent."

"Yes, I'll get him for you," Betty answered, suddenly all business.

"Thanks," the psychiatrist said and waited. On the paper she began to draw an animal. She was actually quite good at sketching but hadn't done it in a while. Doing something with her hands helped her channel her nervous energy in a harmless direction.

"What's up?" Nolan's voice came over the phone sounding brisk and a little impatient. Hutton wondered if he was still angry at her for supporting House's bid for permission to begin pain management therapy.

"I'm at the hospital."

"Are you alright?"

"_I'm_ fine," she told him, "but House isn't. He suffered a severe pain attack this evening when he was alone at home preparing dinner. It was so severe that he went tachy and ended up vfib. If Justin hadn't shown up almost immediately after it had happened House would have died. CPR was performed until the paramedics arrived and defibrillated him. Fortunately they were able to restore a normal sinus rhythm. He's currently in the ER. He's going to have an MRI on his leg but Justin said his pulses are good so he doubts it was another DVT. He's currently sedated and being given Toradol for the pain; he'll be spending the night for observation."

She waited for the senior psychiatrist to respond. She could hear him breathing into the phone, so there was no break in their phone connection. When Nolan failed to say anything right away she spoke up again.

"Still think Ibuprofen and hot baths are enough, Darryl?" her voice was steel hard with a sharp edge of accusation to it. Hutton didn't even bother to hide her emotions from him. She'd stopped doodling and was squeezing the pen with a white-knuckled fist.

"I'll be there in twenty min—"

"Don't bother," Hutton told him, cutting him off. "He's sleeping and probably will remain that way until morning. If you want to do something to help, get over yourself and compose the letter rescinding your previous one and granting your approval of Dr. VanLuten's plan; then place a call to the board tomorrow morning. If you don't, I'll be composing one of my own to the medical ethics board. You're not anymore objective than I am, except you're more concerned about your own ego instead of the well-being of your patient. I'll be certain that my letter expresses that. Good night."

She hung up when she did because she had been very close to yelling at him and saying things she would later wish she hadn't.

Her next call was to Xander Roth. "Hello," the chief administrator answered. There was no mistaking his voice with anyone.

"Xander, hi. It's Olivia Hutton."

"Hello," he said, a smile in his voice, "'Olivia'. What, did I do something wrong?"

Hutton couldn't help but smile at his gregarious nature. "No, of course not. I'm sorry, I'm a little flustered right now."

"Why? Is there something wrong?" he asked, sounding concerned.

"Yes, but not with me," she answered, and then gave him only as much as he needed to know about the situation. It was a little unethical, but she was confident that House wouldn't be angry enough about her releasing certain sensitive personal information to make any kind of official stink about it, especially if it meant he was going to receive relief from his pain because of it. In her mind it was necessary for the well-being of her patient—and friend.

"But he's going to be okay?" Roth asked for confirmation.

"Yes," she answered, "this time…but it was a close call. I know you have connections with the state licensing board…"

"…And you want me to light a fire under their butts considering House's case," he completed for her without missing a beat. "I'll do my best, Liv, but I can't guarantee anything. They're like dogs dragging their asses over there. I'll call my 'connections' first thing tomorrow morning. Does Dr. House know you're doing this?"

"Not a chance," she replied with a wry smile. "He'd be too proud to ask for help."

"Conniving woman," Roth told her and she could picture his phony frown and the smile trying to emerge in spite of his efforts to prevent it.

"I know," she admitted. "Thanks, Xander."

"Not a problem."

After hanging up with him she was in the process of calling home to fill Stephania and David in on what was happening so they wouldn't continue to worry when Anderson came in with their food. Both of her children had been frightened when the ambulance had arrived on the yard and headed down House's lane and had come running to see what had happened. She held up a hand to warn him that she was on the phone. He nodded and set the food down onto the desk in front of her. She smiled her thanks.

"Hello?" It was David.

"Hi, honey," Hutton said but that was all she was able to get out of her mouth before Stephania picked up the extension and began to hit her with a barrage of anxious questions.

"Mom! Is Dr. House okay? What happened to him? Was it his bad leg? Does he have another thrombosis?"

Hutton quirked an eyebrow at her fifteen year old's use of the term 'thrombosis'. How much was she learning from House, anyway? "Steph! Let me get a word in edgewise. Yes, he's going to be okay. He had a very strong attack of pain—"

"Which caused tachycardia," the teen told her mother instead of asked. "Did he go into ventricular fibrillation?"

Hutton couldn't help but smile with amusement and pride. Anderson noticed.

"What?" he asked quizzically.

"Steph, I'm putting this on speakerphone so Gage can talk too," the psychiatrist told her and then pressed a button on her phone and hung up the receiver. "Can you repeat what you just said?"

There was an impatient sigh that came over the speaker. "I said that the pain cause tachycardia and I asked you if he went vfib!"

Anderson smiled, a little surprised. He spoke up this time, "Hi, Steph. Yes, he did. Justin found him in time, called for the ambulance and then started CPR. That's when your mom and I arrived and I helped Justin until the ambulance arrived. The paramedic was able to shock his heart back into a normal rhythm."

"Defibrillation," Steph confirmed as if she was teaching the pediatrician something he hadn't heard before. "Did he code again in the ambulance?"

Hutton just shook her head in amazement. "I don't know. Uncle Justin didn't say and I think that he would have told us if House had."

"Was it another DVT?" the girl demanded next, still sounding anxious. "Sometimes after a thrombectomy there can be complications like clotting at the site of the surgery, resulting in a new embolus that breaks off and causes another thrombosis."

"Uh, no, _Doctor_ Hutton," Gage said to the phone, earning a giggle from the mother, "His right lower appendage pulses were good."

"Cute," Stephania said dryly without missing a beat, "But the Attending has ordered a CT or MRI to be certain, right?"

"Correct," Gage answered. "He's booked for an MRI shortly.

"What are they giving him for pain?" Stephania asked next. "He can't have anything that's an opiate because of his contract, so it'll probably be an NSAID. It better be stronger than ibuprofen. That does nothing for him."

"What would you suggest?" Hutton inquired, trying hard not to laugh.

"Uh…," her daughter vocalized as she thought hard. "Tor…Tor—Toradol! That's the right name, isn't it Gage?"

"You bet," he told her, nodding approvingly even though she couldn't see him do it.

"Oh, good," Stephania said, sounding relieved. "Dr. House said he was going to quiz me on that the next time we meet to work on my project. So, are they giving him flexural to ease the cramping or are they sticking with a Benny, either Valium or Ativan?"

"Both; low-dose Ativan and flexural," Hutton told her. "He's comfortable right now and most likely sleeping. Uncle Justin is with him. Steph, how on Earth did you know all of that?"

"Dr. House has been going over common diseases and medical conditions with me—what they are, their signs and symptoms, treatments and prognoses," she answered. "Because of his leg Dr. House taught me about Deep Vein Thromboses and what happened with his infarction. He says I have a good memory and I'm a good student so he's been pushing me a little harder than he'd planned, but I don't mind. He's also been preparing me so I can challenge the exams on my senior level sciences this fall."

"But you're only going to be a sophomore," the psychiatrist reminded her.

"Sh-yeah," Stephania replied and Hutton could imagine her rolling her eyes just like her mentor would, "but he says that doesn't matter. If I'm ready, and he says I will be, then I can challenge the final exams. If I pass, I don't have to sit around bored in my classes waiting for everyone else to figure it out. Well, he didn't say 'everyone else'—he called them 'idiots' but I don't like calling others that. I told him that I'm bored in class most of the time and that's when I get chatty and get kicked out of class for being disruptive, then I go home and you give me a hard time for ending up in the Vice-principal's office."

"You? Chatty?" Gage said in mock-disbelief. "I find that difficult to believe."

"No, it's true," she told him in all seriousness. That was enough to push Gage over the edge and he laughed heartily. "What's so funny?" she demanded.

"Nothing," the pediatrician lied, trying hard to stifle his laughs, "I'm just teasing you. House is right—you definitely are an excellent student."

"Steph, I may be late getting home so don't wait up. Make certain David's in bed by nine at the latest. I don't need him crabby again tomorrow," Hutton instructed her.

"But Mom there's a movie on at ten—!" David spoke up, apparently still on the line.

"Nine o'clock, David!" Hutton insisted. "Don't give Steph a rough time or she'll tell me and I'll deal with you tomorrow morning. Got it, buddy?"

"Gage, talk to her!" the ten-year-old entreated.

"Sorry, I don't want to get your mom on my case," Anderson responded, giving Hutton a wink. "Better do what she says."

There was a click as David hung up the extension.

"Don't worry, Mom," he daughter assured her, "I'll take care of it. I'll threaten to pull apart all of his Transformers if he doesn't get to bed. If you talk to Dr. House tonight, tell him to get better for me."

"I will. Goodnight, honey."

"'Night, Mom."

Hutton hung up and then looked at her boyfriend, rolled her eyes and shook her head, chuckling.

"I had no idea how intensively House was preparing her for her science project," Gage told her before taking a bite of the sandwich he'd bought for himself.

"Neither had I," the psychiatrist admitted. "But she seems to be in her glory. I think it's good for House, too. Anytime he interacts with others in a positive setting is good for him."

**Wednesday, June 30, 2010; 11:05 A.M.**

Stephania picked up the remote control for the TV and turned it off. She set the remote down on the coffee table, rubbed her eyes tiredly and yawned. Deciding it was time for bed she rose sleepily from the sofa and turned off the lamp. Her mother hadn't returned from the hospital yet but that wasn't all that surprising; she'd said that she would be late and not to wait up for her. She went to make certain that the doors were locked and the 'at-home' mode of the security system was engaged. This mode activated the security features of the doors, windows, and smoke/CO detector without activating the motion detectors throughout the house. That way if either she or David needed to get up to use the bathroom they could move about without setting off the alarm.

With that done she headed upstairs, her mind preoccupied on what had happened at science camp that day, Jeremy, the cute guy who sat next to her in the lab, and especially about House and what had occurred with him. It frightened her to know that pain could actually kill a person if it was intense enough. Such a thing had never occurred to her before, and she was one to think about a great number of things.

Stephania closed the door to her bedroom behind her and began to undress. Finding her robe, pajamas, clean underwear, and basket of toiletries in her closet she headed for the bathroom to have a shower before bed. Most people showered in the mornings before starting their day but because Stephania hated the morning with a passion she preferred showering at night instead. That way she could sleep a little longer. She shut the bathroom door and locked it. Removing her robe and setting her toiletries where she needed them she started the water through the tap into the tub and sat on the edge to keep testing and adjusting the temperature of the water until it was the way she liked it. Pulling the valve on the faucet, the water was diverted upward and sprayed out of the showerhead. She stepped into the shower, pulling the curtain closed. The water flowed over her, soaking her down, the pounding of the streams of water massaging her shoulders and back where she carried all of her stress.

House's brush with death took Stephania back to the night her father had died.

Marcus Hutton had been a very successful defense lawyer. One of his clients had been a young college student accused of date rape. He admitted having done in within the privacy and confidentiality of the lawyer's office. Despite that fact, Marcus had had a legal and ethical responsibility to represent his client the best he was able. However, the evidence the prosecution had had was too damning and his client had been found guilty and sentenced to prison.

The client went through hell in prison and blamed Marcus for not defending him well enough. He'd developed a loathing for him and had determined to hunt the lawyer down and kill him once he was out. With parole he was out in seven years and immediately set to work on killing Marcus. He stalked him and then one evening as Marcus was leaving work to meet his wife and kids for dinner at a restaurant the client made his move.

At the same time nine-year-old Stephania, her mother and three year old David had learned that their reservation at the restaurant had been mixed up. Olivia had tried to raise her husband at work and on his cell but had had no luck on either; if Marcus was working late on a particular case he would often let the phone go to messages at the office and he was forgetful about charging his cellphone, so it was frequently dead when he went to use it or someone was trying to get ahold of him on it. Such was the case that evening. Instead of having her husband drive across the city to find out that his family wasn't there Olivia had decided to drive to his office and tell him, then go together to another restaurant from there. She arrived and parked just before Marcus had been attacked. She and the two kids had been walking from their car to the building when they were on hand to witness the slaying.

Stephania remembered it like it had occurred yesterday. It had been pouring rain, and cold. Her father had already been in his Mercedes and pulling out of his parking spot when his vengeful former client appeared from out of nowhere, raised his nine-millimeter Glock and pumped three hollow-points into her father's face. Stephania remembered her mother screaming as the man with the gun had tossed her father's body out of the driver's seat, jumped in and had fled with the Mercedes.

Her mother had screamed, running toward Marcus while Stephania had stood holding David's hand just a few yards away. She'd been too stunned to move or react and had just stared dumbly as her mother had tried fruitlessly to save her father's life. David had started crying when he saw his mother crying. Stephania held tight to his hand as he tried to run to their mother and just stared.

And when the ambulance had arrived it had continued to rain bucketsful from the sky…

Stephania gasped and reached blindly for the tap, turning it off. The shower ceased to spray down on her. She had seen House's still form on the stretcher the paramedics had lifted into the ambulance. For a few minutes she thought that she had seen yet another person she cared for slip away.

Panting, swallowing, blinking, trying not to cry the teen stood still and closed her eyes tightly, trying to ignore the flashbacks. She remembered what the child psychiatrist had taught her in the weeks and months following the murder, and put it to practice now. Breathing slowly and deeply in through her nose and out through her mouth until the dizziness and nausea passed and she felt solidly in the present again. Quickly she toweled off, put her pajamas and robe on, and gathered up her toiletries. She hurried to her bedroom and shut the door.

Her bedroom window was wide open and rain was coming in.

The girl felt a tingling sensation as the hair on the back of her neck stood up. Her heart felt like it had seized up in her chest and that her lungs were devoid of air. How? She hadn't opened it; in fact, it had been locked tight, and the security system was on so the alarm should have been screaming throughout the house but it wasn't.

That's when she noticed it on the bed: a small piece of note paper folded in half. Nervously she approached her bed and grabbed the paper with shaking hands. Slowly she opened the note. On the interior surface was written in blue ink:

_This is too easy. You're going to have to try harder than this. See you Sunday, sexy._

Stephania's resolve broke and she started to cry. She rushed to the window and slammed it closed, locking it again and then ran to her mother's bedroom, slamming the door shut and jumping onto the bed. She picked up the phone extension on the night table and with hands trembling so badly that it took her three tries before she dialed the number correctly, she held the phone to her ears, sobbing.

When her call was answered, before the other end could even say hello she cried into the phone, "Mommy! Help! Oh god, where are you? He's here! He was in my bedroom! I had the alarm on and my window locked but he still got in. I don't know if he's still here and I-!"

"Stephania!" she heard her mother exclaim. "Slow down, I can't understand you! Who was in your bedroom?"

"_Him_," the girl cried, heaving for breath. "The guy who tried to kidnap me! My window was locked and the alarm was on. I was taking a shower and when I got back to my bedroom the window was wide open and the alarm hadn't gone off!"

It became apparent that Hutton had put her cell onto speakerphone because it was Anderson who spoke to the teen next. "How do you know it was the same guy, Steph? Did you see him?"

"No, but Gage he—he left a note on my—bed!" she responded, hiccupping. "It says 'This is too—easy. You're—going to have to try harder—than this. See—you Sunday, Sexy.'"

Hutton murmured, "Oh my god…"

"Listen to me carefully, Steph," Anderson told her intensely. "I want you to go wake up David. You know that room in the basement that your mom and I showed you?"

"Yeah," she said in a small voice.

"I want you to take David and go to that room," the pediatrician told her calmly, but there was a strained undercurrent to his voice. "Go inside and lock it like I showed you. Wait there. Don't come out for any reason until your mom and I come to get you. Have you got that?"

"Yeah…yeah," she assured him. "Go to the room, go inside, lock it and stay put—got it."

"Go _now_," he told her.

Stephania didn't bother saying goodbye. She hung up the phone and ran to David's room, pounding hard on the door. "David, get up! Get up, it's an emergency!"

Her brother must have been awakened by her crying because he unlocked his bedroom door and opened it to her almost immediately. He was holding his baseball bat.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

"I'll tell you later!" his sister told him, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him with her towards the stairs. "We have to get to that safe room right now! Come on, David! Hurry!"

He pulled free of her grip and rushed down the stairs ahead of her, his bat ready for anyone who might be waiting for them. She followed on his heels all the way down to the basement, flicking on lights as they went. Neither saw anyone else in their home but they knew that that didn't mean a thing. At the far end of the concrete basement was a steel door, Stephania yanked on the handle and pulled the heavy door open. A light came on automatically inside the safe room and both kids hurried inside, pushing the door shut. Immediately she began to slide locks into place and press the buttons she'd been shown. She heard a hiss and on a small LCD panel on the door the green word ARMED lit up.

At that point Stephania leaned back against the locked and sealed door, completely spent. The room was quite large and fitted with a sofa and a chair to sit on. In a corner was a partition behind which was a toilet and sink. On the one wall was a monitor showing the changing views of the exterior of the house from the surveillance cameras that had been installed. She knew that this room, which had once been a spare bedroom and a bathroom and had been renovated by the security experts that had been installing all of the other upgrades, had walls that had been reinforced with steel plates and another layer of fire-retardant drywall. There was a vent that ran independently from the rest of the house to provide fresh air and which could be shut off from inside the safe room and only there.

She joined David on the sofa and waited impatiently for her mom and Anderson to get home.

**Thursday, July 1, 2010; 1:35 A.M.**

House slowly opened his eyes, feeling dopey. His brain, which always seemed to be running on all cylinders, even when he was asleep, was sluggish, indicating to him that he was either drugged up or drunk. When he moved his eyes around the dimly lit room and saw the IV bag hanging above him trailing a tube that ran into his arm. He realized that he was in the hospital, so it was likely drugs clouding his brain. He couldn't remember immediately what had happened to explain why he was a patient again. He didn't feel particularly sick, although his leg was bothering him a little, maybe a two on the ten scale of pain, he felt weak and his chest felt sore.

Realizing that someone had a hold on his left hand House glanced over and saw Clee sitting in a chair next to his bed. The surgeon looked wide awake now, but his hair was messed at the back and his shirt was slightly wrinkled. A mark ran down his cheek, the impression of the upholstery seam in the arm of the chair he sat in and House knew he'd been sleeping but had been awakened by House's subtle movements. Clee smiled warmly when he noticed that House was awake but the diagnostician could see the strain in his eyes that spoke of worry. That's when he remember the pain attack, falling to the kitchen floor and nearly stabbing himself with the boning knife he'd been holding at the time. Memories of the pain, so intense that just thinking about it made him tense up, returned to him and he shuddered. The last thing he remembered before waking up just now was hearing the smoke detector in his home go off.

"Are you in pain?" were Clee's first words to him as he gently combed his fingers through House's thinning hair. His touch felt so good that the diagnostician barely noticed the pain in his leg.

"A little," he admitted in a whisper. "Not much. I'm at St. Luke's?"

Clee nodded. "Do you remember what happened last night?"

Shrugging, House replied, "I remember falling to the floor. The pain was the worst I've felt in two years. My heart was racing, pounding in my head. It was hard to breathe. Something was burning because the smoke detector went off. That's all I remember right now."

With a heavy-hearted sigh Clee leaned forward and kissed him tenderly before saying, "When I got to your place I heard the smoke detector from outside. When you didn't come to the door I forced my way in and found you on the floor, like you said. You'd stopped breathing and were in vfib. I don't know for how long. Gage and Liv showed up and Gage helped me with the CPR until the ambulance arrived. They needed to defibrillate so if your chest hurts you now know why. God, Greg. I was so scared."

"I'm sorry," House told him meekly.

"There's no reason for you to be," the surgeon told him gently, lifting his hand and placing soft kisses on it. "It's not your fault. It's that fucking Nolan's, but don't worry. Liv and Gage went to make some phone calls. We're going to get that board moving on their decision this week. You can't afford to go through this again."

"Still think you want to stick with me?" House asked the younger man. He was afraid that Clee would be convinced after this that dating him was too much of a hassle and he'd be better off leaving the diagnostician for someone younger, healthier, and in one properly functioning piece. He couldn't blame him if he did.

"I know I do," was the answer. House noticed the glassiness of Clee's eyes, the quaver in his voice. He leaned in and kissed House again and then pressed his cheek against the older man's scruffy one and nuzzled him. He began to place little kisses up to House's temple and House closed his eyes, enjoying the tenderness of his lover's touch. He felt his eyes sting and then felt tears trickle past his eyelashes. He wasn't crying exactly; he was perfectly calm and relaxed, but there was so much emotion in Clee's kisses and caresses that he felt overwhelmed by it, especially after the terror he'd felt just hours before. He'd been certain that no matter what all had happened, how far he'd come, he was still going to die alone. He needed this comfort, this reassurance. When Wilson had told him that he never wanted to see him again, the diagnostician had felt the same way he had on the floor of his bathroom in Princeton, broken mirror glass in his bathtub, Vicodin in his hand—a failure that nobody had any use for. In this moment, with Clee's lips moving to brush his own again, House was certain that somewhere he had done something right and he would never allow himself to be left behind, or dragged back to Gehenna again.

The surgeon reluctantly pulled away and looked deeply into House's drowsy blue eyes.

"Go to sleep now, handsome," Clee told him softly. "I'll be here when you wake up again."

House's smile was his acknowledgement before he felt his heavy eyelids fall and he drifted off to sleep again.


	45. Chapter 45 Part 3 Ch 11

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **8531

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Eleven: Thursday, July 1, 2010; 12:30 A.M.**

When Anderson and Hutton drove through the remote controlled gate and onto the yard they could see the two sheriff's cars with their lights flashing parked outside of the psychiatrist's house. The entire building was alight within. Hutton jumped out of the car before it had even stopped and was running to the front door when it opened and a sheriff's deputy stepped out to meet her.

"My kids?" she asked, trying to remain calm in spite of her worry and anxiety.

"Dr. Hutton?"

"Yes," she told him.

"I'm Deputy Sheriff Darry Colm, Ma'am," he told her politely. He was of average height and brawny build with soft brown hair and eyes. "Your children are fine. I take it you know that your daughter claims there was an intruder in her room and she and your son took refuge in the panic room?"

Anderson walked up behind her and gently placed his hand in the small of her back. She relaxed just knowing that he was there.

"Yes," she answered, itching to get inside and hug her babies. "My daughter called me when she discovered that someone had been in her bedroom. My boyfriend, Dr. Anderson here, told her to get her little brother and go down to the panic room. They're okay, aren't they?"

Deputy Colm nodded with a small smile. "They're fine, but we have a small problem."

Frowning now, the pediatrician demanded, "What is it?"

"Well, they're refusing to open the door for us," was the reply. "They will only open it for you, Dr. Hutton. They don't know whether to believe that we're the police. We contacted your security system provider with a request to remotely open the door but they need your authorization to do that; if you could try to convince them that it's safe to come out?"

Hutton smiled in relief and amusement, most of her tension now out of her body. "Certainly."

The three of them entered the house and went immediately down to the basement. Hutton called the number of the phone inside the room on her cellphone. It was promptly answered by Stephania.

"Mom?"

"Yes, Honey, it's me," her mother told her. "Steph, you can open the door; these people really are the police. Everything is clear."

A second later there was a hiss and the sound of the locking mechanism releasing. The heavy door was pushed open by both kids. Once clear of the room they ran into Hutton's arms. Stephania was no longer sobbing but it appeared that she had stopped only a short time ago; her eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot and puffy. Dried tears left salty riverbeds on her cheeks and her mouth and nose were red as well. David was trembling like a leaf. Their fear and upset were breaking Hutton's heart. The fear she had felt on the race home was quickly being replaced with fury for whoever it was doing this to them. It took her a great deal to hide that anger from her children.

They all went upstairs to be interviewed by the police again. The uniformed officer questioned each of them in turn, taking notes. They each wrote out a statement and signed it. Shortly after that another car pulled up in front of the house. Two plainclothes detectives emerged from it and came into the house. After another hour of questioning by them the detectives tried to convince Hutton to cancel the annual BBQ but she refused outright.

"Liv," Anderson said, frowning a little, "we're talking about the safety of you and your family."

Hutton nodded. She was keenly aware of that, but she stood by her decision. She tried to explain it to him, Stephania and Sheriff's Detectives Jim Reid and Brian Morro.

"This guy is committing an act of terrorism against my family, Gage. I can do one of two things: back off, quit my normal way of life, allow my fear to conduct every decision I make and everything I do and just hide. Then, assumedly, my family and I will be _safe_—miserable, but 'safe'. Or, I can stand up to this bully, lift my chin high, live my life as I choose to live it, assert my rights to live my life as I choose to live and not allow fear to rule me. I may not be 'safe' in those terms, but I'll be free. If I give this creep all of my power by hiding, then he wins. He doesn't get to win; we do. Now, I will take every logical and rational security precaution to protect my family and guests, but this BBQ _will_ take place. I will not trade my freedom for supposed safety." She turned back to the detectives. "How long will the forensics team be searching the house and yard? I want to begin setting up for the BBQ tomorrow but I don't want to impede your investigation."

"They'll be working through the night and then do another quick sweep in day light," Morro told her. "You should have your yard back by noon tomorrow."

"Thank you," Hutton told him, satisfied with that answer.

"Actually, I commend you for your stand, Doctor," Detective Reid told her, nodding. "We live in a culture of fear and fear-mongering, jumping at our own shadows because it might potentially be a threat. The best way to defeat terrorism of any kind, be it a psycho stalking your family or a crazy bomber on a bus, is to stand up against the fear and carry on as normally as possible.

"Our perp might use your BBQ as a type of camouflage to act again, but that would also offer us the opportunity to catch him in the act. I'm going to talk to our superior and see if we can post some plainclothes cops at your party to help out your other security precautions and keep an eye out for this sicko."

"I would really appreciate that," the psychiatrist told him with a nod.

"Great," Reid acknowledged. "It probably would be best if you didn't spend the night here tonight. Our people will be in and out all night. Do you have another place you can stay?"

Hutton nodded. "I called my friend. She insisted we stay with her so that's where we'll be heading for tonight and possibly tomorrow night as well."

"Good," Morro told her with a nod. "We appreciate your cooperation."

After their conversation Hutton had her kids pack for two nights in case they decided to stay the extra night after all. She told Anderson to go home and get some sleep. He agreed that was probably a good idea. She walked him to his car.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" he asked her, holding her in his arms and resting his forehead against hers. "The community will survive if you don't throw a party this year. I just don't want to see anything happen to you or the kids."

"Neither do I," Hutton told him, caressing his face with her hand, "but I refuse to run scared this time. When Marcus was murdered I hid from the world for months. I was terrified to leave the house, I kept everything locked up tight, and I was terrified of the dark. I don't ever want to live like that again."

Anderson sighed. "You are one stubborn woman," he told her, cracking a smile. "Courageous as well."

"I wouldn't go that far," she told him. "But the stubborn part is true."

He pulled her into a kiss that nearly set her on fire.

"Good night, Liv," Anderson smiled and let her go. She nodded, genuinely sad to see him go.

"Good night, Gage."

He nodded and climbed into his car. After nodding at her and smiling he drove away. Hutton watched him until she couldn't see his car anymore, hugging herself against the chill of the air and her own fear. She returned to the house to pack.

**Thursday, July 1, 2010; 7:59 A.M.**

House woke up to find Justin Clee sound asleep in the recliner someone had brought in for him from the maternity ward. He snored lightly, looking adorable. The diagnostician smiled. Here was someone who genuinely cared about him, someone he'd known but for a short time and yet was willing to sleep in an uncomfortable hospital recliner sitting vigil over him. House knew that he was falling for the surgeon, which scared him to no end. It was so soon after losing Wilson that he felt almost guilty for caring for someone other than the oncologist. He knew it could be simply rebound. It was possible. However, when the older man looked at the younger he knew that the possibility was slim.

Never had House thought it possible for him to fall in love with someone other than Wilson. For years he'd staked his entire life around having him in it and had believed that without him in it there would be no reason to keep going. While he still felt the heartache of Wilson rejecting him and pushing him away, House was thrilled to have the opportunity to move on from that.

His leg was hurting around a three, which was a hell of a lot better that the ten plus he'd suffered the night before. He was looking forward to getting back home. He couldn't allow his damned leg keep him from his life. He had a job to do, a relationship to build and the closest thing to a healthy family he'd ever had to protect. On top of that he had a lawsuit in the works and a pain management plan to fight for. House was grateful for the help he was receiving concerning that but it was his pain and his fight and he intended to be a part of it. Just give him the Toradol and send him home!

That thought was fresh in his mind when his nurse entered with his breakfast tray.

"Good morning!" Elsie said to him cheerfully. How are you feeling this morning Dr. House?"

"Famished," he admitted. The sound of their voices woke the vascular surgeon who slowly opened his blue eyes and blinked a few times before turning his head to look at House. He brought the recliner back to its upright position.

"Good morning, Dr. Clee," she said to the younger man just as cheerfully. House found cheerful morning people very annoying.

His lover didn't seem bothered by it though. He gave her a warm smile. "Good morning." He turned his attention to House, leaning over the rail and kissing the older man lovingly. "And good morning to you, too."

House noticed Nurse Elsie watching them with a smile but didn't care. In fact, if she insisted on watching he'd give her something to see.

"It's morning," House agreed, smirking slyly, "but it's not quite good yet." He pulled a slightly surprised Clee into a more passionate kiss involving tongue and roaming hands. Chuckling a little into the diagnostician's mouth the surgeon nevertheless returned the kiss with fervor. House heard the nurse leave but he wasn't ready to stop kissing yet. When he finally was he took a few breaths and said. "I guess the morning is good after all. It could be better if you lock the door and close the blinds." He wagged his eyebrows suggestively.

"Somebody is feeling better," Clee said, chuckling, grabbing House's hand and sitting down. "Where's your pain at?"

Shrugging the diagnostician answered, "About a three. Right now I just want to go home."

"Don't rush things," the younger man told him soberly. "You almost died last night," The surgeon, hearing himself say those words, shuddered involuntarily. "Shit," he murmured, suddenly looking nauseous.

House used his thumb to rub the back of Clee's hand in a small gesture of comfort. "Thanks to you I'm not."

The surgeon shook his head at that. His eyes met House's, looking very thoughtful. "Move over," he told the older man.

Smiling at that, House carefully wiggled over, giving his lover about half of the bed. Being careful not to suddenly jolt House or otherwise cause him any further pain Clee slid onto the bed and laid on his right side so he could face the diagnostician. House turned onto his left side to face him and they simply stared at each other for a while. The surgeon caressed House's scruffy cheek, smiling contentedly. House placed his right hand on Clee's back and pulled him closer.

"Thank you," the younger of the two said softly.

House frowned questioningly, his long fingers sliding under Clee's shirt to trace curly-cues and wavy lines against the warm, soft skin of his flank. "For what?"

His face thoughtful, Clee murmured, "When Charlie died I thought that I would never again find anyone who made me as happy as he had. Thank you for proving me wrong."

At that House felt his heart swell as if it was going to explode and all he wanted to do was make love to the man next to him. It was a shame they were still at the hospital, he decided.

"At the risk of sounding disgustingly sappy," the diagnostician replied, "it's my pleasure." He wanted to add that Clee had done the same thing for him but felt unable to put that into words. Instead he kissed the younger man gently and his eyes spoke the volumes he couldn't bring his lips to say.

House heard the door open and looked in that direction, as did his lover. Darryl Nolan walked into the room. The surgeon immediately bristled as the psychiatrist's unwanted presence. House whispered in Clee's ear not to do anything impulsive; he was fully aware of the irony of that.

"Don't you believe in knocking?" Clee spat angrily, his eyebrows knitting together.

"Hello, Dr. Clee," Nolan said civilly and House could tell that it was practiced and forced. "My apologies. I was unaware that Greg had a visitor. I decided to stop by before heading to work to check on him."

"Why?" Clee demanded, scowling suspiciously. "So you can gloat at what you've caused?"

"Is that what you think my motivation is?" the psychiatrist asked him calmly in his best 'I'm-dealing-with-an-irrational-and-potentially-dangerous-lunatic' voice. "I believe you're allowing past unfortunate events to cloud your judgment, Doctor."

House instinctively grabbed his lover's forearm when it appeared that he might jump off of the bed and start pummeling Nolan. The diagnostician spoke up, "What _do_ you want, Nolan? You made it perfectly clear where you stand concerning my leg and the pain management proposal."

Nolan nodded, keeping his eyes on House's when he asked,"Would you mind excusing us, Doctor Clee? I have something I wish to discuss with my patient which is private, privileged information requiring that he and I be allowed to speak alone.

"Oh, _hell_ no!" Clee told him defiantly. "I'm not leaving Greg alone with you for five seconds!"

"Nolan," House said crossly to him, "cut the bullshit. Whatever you have to say you can say in front of Justin, so get to it and then get the hell out."

Nolan nodded, apparently not pleased but having no intention of arguing. He pulled a folded piece of letter-size paper out of the inner breast pocket of his jacket pocket and handed it to House.

"What is this?" House demanded warily, not unfolding it to take a look.

A letter I faxed this morning to the Pennsylvania medical licensing board," Nolan answered simply, somberly. He said no more, waiting for House to reading what it said for himself. Peripherally House could see the hateful glare Clee was giving his therapist. He moved slightly so that his shoulder was in constant contact with the vascular surgeon's and then opened the letter and gave it a quick perusal. He looked up at Nolan, cautious of being duped somehow. He handed the letter to Clee to look over, which he did.

"Is this for real?" House asked his shrink. Clee appeared to be doubtful, looking for the catch. The diagnostician was secretly hopeful. Nolan had kept his word whenever he had given it in the past.

Nolan nodded but then qualified the gesture with, "I still think it's a mistake, Greg. You're playing with fire and you're going to get burned. That being said, I acknowledge that you have the right to make your own mistakes and hopefully learn from them. I can't protect you from yourself forever. But be warned—if you test for quantities of the medications involved in your prescribed pain management regimen at levels higher than they should be, for intoxicating drugs not included in your prescription or fail to comply to the other conditions of the contract you signed, I _will_ recall you to Mayfield." He turned and left the room without another word to either House or Clee.

The two lovers looked at each other and then smiled, Clee broadly so. He pulled House into a tongue-filled kiss.

**Thursday, July 1, 2010; 12:15 P.M.**

House was protesting having to ride in the wheelchair from ICU to the hospital exit when Hutton and Bonnar knocked on the door then poked their heads inside. Clee was standing with his arms folded across his chest off to the side of the small room, watching the argument between surly patient-slash-doctor and his nurse. On the surgeon's face was a slightly amused smirk.

"My leg doesn't hurt that badly!" House shouted. "I'm not so crippled that I can't walk on crutches to the lobby."

"Hospital rules, Dr. House," the day-shift nurse told him, frowning crossly. "If you should fall and hurt yourself on the way downstairs I could get into trouble and the hospital could be found liable should you decide to sue."

"I'm already suing a hospital," House sneered. "Trust me, one lawsuit is headache enough! Suing St. Luke's would be like cutting off my nose to spite my face, you old crone! Now take that cursed thing out of here and bring me crutches before I tie you to it and lock you in a broom closet or in your world, a parking garage!"

The nurse turned to Clee for help but the surgeon held up two hands as if to push her away. "Don't look at me," he said. "I'm Switzerland."

The nurse growled in frustration and pushed the wheelchair out of the room after Hutton and Bonnar stepped in.

"Making friends with the nursing staff, I see," Hutton said to the diagnostician, repressing a smile.

"Nah," House said, still appearing frustrated. "Just with witches. She needs to fly back to her coven now. It's about time you came to see me."

Smiling now, Hutton approached the bed where House sat with his legs hanging over the side. She sat next to him.

"Gage and I were here last night but you were pretty out of it at the time," she told him, lightly patting his good thigh. "I would have come by this morning but I didn't get here until ten and then I had two appointments back to back."

"Slacking off, are you?" he replied. "I like it. It's about time you relaxed."

"She had a very late night with Gage," Bonnar said, tongue in cheek.

"Ooo, well," Clee said, grinning slyly. "Coming in late for work because of sex. Now I'm impressed too, Liv."

Hutton glared at her best friend. Bonnar grinned and winked at her.

"It wasn't that," the psychiatrist told them, blushing slightly. "There was another incident last night with our friendly neighborhood stalker."

House and Clee exchanged looks of concern before looking back at her.

"Tell us what happened," House demanded, his body tensing up visibly. Clee moved closer to the diagnostician and placed a hand on the back of the older man's neck, gently massaging the tightening muscles there.

Before Hutton could do so Bonnar spoke up for her. "While Liv and Gage were here the sleaze managed to get past all of the new security features that had been installed and entered Steph's bedroom window while she was in the shower."

"Is she alright?" House demanded, doing a poor job at hiding his alarm at this news.

"Yes," Hutton assured him, nodding. When she returned to her room the window was open and he was gone. What bothers me is that the alarm hadn't gone off. Whoever he is, he knows his way around security systems. There was a note left on her bed." She pulled it out of her pocket and handed it to House. Clee looked over his shoulder as he read it.

"The sonofabitch!" Clee said angrily, his eyes flaring.

Hutton nodded. "Steph called me and Gage and I headed home as quickly as we could. She and David hid in the panic room until the police got there. We arrived a while after them. This time two detectives showed up. Since the police and their forensic team were going to be everywhere I took the kids over to Linda's for the night."

"So much for the security system keeping you safe," House said quietly, frowning pensively. "That asshole is toying with you and the kids. If he had really wanted to he could have attacked Stephania and David. The fact that he didn't means that he wants to terrify you more than anything else-at least for now. He's calculating, biding his time for the perfect moment to make his next big move. The BBQ would be a good place for him to blend in and wait until it was time to pounce."

"That's what the police said as well," Hutton agreed, nodding and sighing tiredly. She really was exhausted, body, mind and soul. She wished she knew who was doing this to her family and why. "They wanted me to cancel the BBQ this year. I refused. It's going ahead as planned."

"Liv," Clee objected, "if the police believe it would be safer to cancel, maybe you should do as they suggest."

"Save your breath," Bonnar told him, shaking her head in disgust. "She's going ahead with it regardless."

"I don't want to let some deranged cretin terrorize me into cancelling my life," the psychiatrist argued, frustrated that nobody seemed to understand where she was coming from. "That's what he wants. He wants to terrify us and force us into altering our lives until we're prisoners of our own fear. I won't have it. He's not going to succeed at controlling our lives. The kids agree with me. The police are going to have some of their own at the BBQ, in plainclothes, to blend in and keep an eye out for anyone matching his description. I've also hired six security guards for the evening to keep an eye on the gate, the house and the perimeter of the property." She forced herself to relax and tried to smile. "Besides, I refuse to miss your performance, Justin. You realize I have high expectations, don't you?"

The surgeon grudgingly nodded, still appearing to think she was making a mistake. "I hope you know what you're doing, Liv. I don't want Stephania, David and you to get hurt."

"Agreed," House told her. "However, this could prove to be a way of smoking him out, making him show his hand on our turf. It may be the best way to catch him."

"That's what the detectives said, too," Hutton informed him. "Believe me I'm not taking this decision lightly. I love my kids and I don't want anything to happen to them, but if we don't stand up to this kind of intimidation it will only get worse."

Clee nodded and gave her a small smile. "You're one brave cookie, Sweetie. On a different topic, Greg just received very good but unexpected news this morning."

"What's that?" Bonnar asked, looking to the diagnostician curiously. Hutton followed her lead.

"Nolan popped in on his way to the nuthouse," House told them, looking less than excited. "He showed me a letter he had faxed to the state licensing board rescinding his previous objection to Dr. VanLuten's pain management regimen."

"The dickhead is still sticking to his conviction that Greg is going to end up abusing drugs under this plan but he has decided not to coddle and parent him," Clee added, looking like he had just tasted something unpleasant—the look he always seemed to get when Nolan was the topic of discussion. "Quite frankly, I don't give a rat's ass what he thinks but I am pretty shocked that he changed his mind about standing in the way."

A huge smile crossed Hutton face, reflecting her relief that the older psychiatrist had done the right thing. She knew that no one would be able to change Nolan's opinion concerning the pain intervention plan but at least House was finally going to get the pain relief he should have received a decade ago. Ten years living in constant pain was ten years too long.

"I'm so happy to hear that," she told the diagnostician.

House looked at her suspiciously, "Why do I get the feeling you're going to hug me?"

"Because you're very observant," Hutton answered and then wrapped her arms around him and hugged him. After a moment she could feel House relax and hug her back briefly.

"Hey!" Hutton said, pulling away and frowning disapprovingly, trying to keep an amused smile off of her face. "Trying to cop a feel of your therapist in front of your boyfriend—have you no shame?"

"Absolutely none," House told her impudently, smirking.

**Thursday, July 1, 2010; 4:15 P.M.**

They sat in a circle on chairs that were made of steel with soft padding in the back and seat. There were eight of them including Alex, their therapist, a medical doctor who specialized in addiction. The first time James Wilson had attended process group, the day after detoxing was over, he'd simply sat and listened to the other members talk. He didn't know these people and he hadn't felt comfortable opening up about his most secret feelings, hurts and desires with them. Following that session Alex had warned him that he would be given the floor to speak next session and had encouraged him to contribute to the group. He had been told that by contributing others could help him work through his issues and he could help them with theirs. Nothing he said would leave the group or the hospital and everybody present had been through painful, traumatizing things so he wouldn't look foolish or be judged.

Wilson sat anxiously, his palms sweating and his throat feeling dry and sore. He had never completely opened up to anyone before—not even House; especially not House. Perhaps that was why he was as screwed up as he was. His redemption, he reminded himself, could very well be in learning to be transparent and honest with the people who meant the most to him as well as to himself.

"Good afternoon," Alex, a shorter man, balding in his late forties welcomed them as he arrived and sat down, a file folder in one hand and a cup of java in the other. "How was your workout today?"

A general groan came from the group, causing both Alex and Wilson to smile in amusement. Their fitness instructor was a fan of circuit training, or rather, torture. After all, exercise caused the release of natural endorphins that helped to improve one's mood and fight depression. It also felt damned good. Wilson hadn't really worked out in years; he had never allowed himself the time to play sports or work out at the gym. He'd been too busy with work and looking out for House. No one had forced him to do those things; they made him feel needed, like he had some kind of purpose in life, but that meaning had come with a price—his own physical and emotional well-being.

"James," Alex addressed, focusing his attention on the oncologist, "you're the only one who didn't complain. You like working out?"

Wilson shrugged one shoulder. "Sure. It feels good—painful but good. I used to be quite athletic—racquetball, tennis, running, golf—but that was a long time ago. Since I moved to Princeton I haven't really had much time."

"Why not?" Sherri asked from his immediate left. She was an attractive redhead in her early twenties, a recovering alcoholic like him. She had alert bluish-green eyes, large freckles across her nose, and a body that had been starved of real nutrition when alcohol had become more important to her than food.

_Here we go_, Wilson thought with a mental sigh.

"My job is very demanding and I spend long hours at it," he answered, cringing internally; he knew these were only excuses but he didn't want to admit that to himself or anyone else. "It's very stressful and at the end of the day I'm exhausted. I certainly don't feel like heading to the gym or the golf course after that."

"I've read that regular exercise actually gives you more energy," Denny informed him. He was a slightly overweight white man in his late thirties with dark hair and eyes and a terrible case of adult acne. He was the group know-it-all, always a fount of information and wise insight for everybody but himself. Wilson had no idea what his particular monkey had been but he'd heard rumors that it had been sex addiction.

"Yeah, well," Wilson responded, "there have been other things taking up what free time I've had." _Or people_, he added silently.

"James," Alex said pleasantly, "since you're new and you saw how this group works yesterday, today is your turn to tell us about yourself."

Anxiety rose inside the doctor and he wished he was anywhere but there at that moment. He kept telling himself that he could do this—that he _had_ to do this if he wanted to get better.

"I-I'm not certain exactly what to say," Wilson admitted, stammering slightly. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls.

"Well, we usually have a pattern here," the therapist explained. "Tell us your name, what you do for a living or for fun, why you're here, three or more strengths and positive attributes, one thing you would like to work on improving while here and then the floor will be opened to the rest of the group to ask you questions. We encourage openness here but if there's a question that is simply too difficult for you to answer you may opt not to answer it. Whatever you do say must be the truth. Lies have no place here. Okay?"

"Sure," the oncologist responded with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. This was definitely not something he wanted to be doing. Excising smelly, oozing, disgusting skin tumors would be preferable to this. He cleared his throat nervously. "Uh, my name is James and I'm a doctor. I used to live and work in Princeton before…well, before I let my addiction take over my life. I'm a recovering alcoholic. I used to drink socially and very rarely got drunk. After I was served divorce papers from my first wife at a convention halfway across the country from her I began to drink whenever I felt very angry, hurt or depressed. Actually I met my best friend when I got so drunk at that convention that I ended up throwing a bottle of booze into an antique mirror at a bar which sparked a bar fight. I was arrested but my friend, who had snuck out of the bar before the police arrived, bailed me out of jail. He was a total stranger to me. He said he did it because he was bored and I looked like I was interesting." He paused a moment, unaware of the fact that a fond smile had emerged briefly on his face.

"After that I began to drink a little heavier socially because my friend was a heavy drinker and we did almost everything together," Wilson continued after an audible sigh. "I came to work at the same hospital as he did as a department head. With that came the long hours of work and the added stress of such a position. I began having a drink or two after work pretty much every night but I only drank to excess when I was down in the dumps or when I was hanging out with my friend.

"I went through two more marriages, a girlfriend who died tragically, and the ending of an attempt to reunite with my first ex-wife. There was a lot of difficult stuff that took place between House and me during that time. He had been depressed, an alcoholic, a prescription drug addict and I tried to rescue him from himself on a regular basis which only added to my stress when he did self-destructive and suicidal things. My drinking became heavier than ever.

"Anyway, my life turned to shit, and I began drinking very heavily to the point where I needed to drink to make it through the day. It affected my career and my relationships—destroyed them, actually. I quit my job, destroyed my friendship and pushed the person I was in love with out of my life. I denied having a problem with alcohol and other issues. My alcoholism was slammed into my face just before I admitted myself to Silver Springs. I came to Houston to apply for a position at a prestigious hospital that dealt with patients requiring my specialization. The night before the interview I got so drunk that I blacked out and woke up lying on the ground in Baldwin Park when a stray dog began to lick the puke off my face. I was still drunk and not thinking clearly so I decided to catch a cab to my interview dressed like I was, staggering and reeking of vomit and scotch. Needless to say I didn't make a good impression. I was escorted out of the hospital by security. That's when I realized that my friend had been right—I had a problem and I needed help. So, here I am."

Wilson stopped to take a deep, shaking breath, staring at his feet. His body was trembling as he fought the tears and shame that were threatening to overwhelm him. That was the first time he had verbalized his descent into hell and while he felt like he was currently on an emotional roller coaster he also felt like a huge weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. He didn't have to carry his burden of shame in secret anymore. He felt a hand lightly touch his shoulder. Looking up he saw Fiona, a forty-something housewife and recovering meth addict standing next to him, proffering him a glass of water. He smiled weakly in appreciation and accepted the drink, sipping it slowly.

"Just breathe deeply, James, in through your nose and out through your mouth," Alex instructed him. "When you're ready you can continue."

Wilson did as he was told. After a few breaths he felt stable enough to talk again. "Ah, okay. Three strengths…alright. One of my strengths is that I'm very good at my job. I'm an oncologist. That means I specialize in treating people who have cancer. It's no secret that cancer has no cure, really. Very few kinds of cancer can be successfully treated and eliminated. Most can be controlled and patients can achieve a condition we call remission. That's when the cancer has been halted in its progression, has been reducing in the body and no longer is life threatening. Sometimes this can last permanently and patients go on to live long, productive lives. Sometimes remission only lasts a few months or years before the cancer becomes active again. Then there are types of cancer that have no cure or treatment, do not go into remission and spread aggressively leading to death. There are far too many of those cases.

"My remission rate exceeded the national average and the ratio of patients surviving five years or longer to those who did not was also considerably above average," Wilson informed them, sounding a little proud of himself for that accomplishment. "But sometimes it was easy to forget that when I had to sit down with a patient and his or her family and tell them that there was nothing more that could be done to help them and that they were, in fact, going to die. It's also hard on me when I sit with a patient and the family and he or she breathes that last breath. I often pretend that I'm objective and okay when really I'm not.

"Uh, other strengths of mine are my compassion and empathy. They're useful in my chosen career, but they can be like a double-edged sword. For a third…well," he showed a lop-sided smile, "my best friend said I'd make someone a good wife. I'm cleanly, efficient and a pretty good cook."

The three other men in the room chuckled at that, as did Fiona. Sherri didn't find it all that amusing.

"Your friend sounds like a chauvinist pig," she told the doctor bluntly.

Wilson smirked at that. "That's exactly what he wants people to think, but really he isn't. It's all part of the persona he's developed to protect himself from getting too close to others where he could potentially get hurt."

"Sounds like he's got major issues of his own," Denny informed him with an air of assumed authority in the matter.

"We all do," a quiet, mousy eighteen-year man, Hank, interjected in defense of a man he didn't even know. From the track marks on Hank's neck Wilson could tell that he was likely recovering from heroin addiction. His skeletal frame and grey pallor fit. "He said the man was an addict like us."

Alex stepped into the conversation to redirect it back to Wilson. "What do you want to get out of this program, James? Have you set a goal?"

_A goal_? Wilson echoed in his head. He'd barely been able to think straight and remember where the dining room was since emerging from the detox unit; he hadn't even begun to think about goals yet.

"I don't really know," the oncologist admitted reluctantly. "To get better, whatever the hell that means. To stop feeling like shit all of the time and turning to alcohol to deal with everyday life. Isn't that ultimately why we're all here?"

"I think he's looking for something more specific," Fiona offered softly. "I'm here to get better, too, so I can be the wife and mother my family deserves. More specifically, though, I want to leave here being able to assert myself with my husband when he tries to control me and violates my boundaries. I want to learn how to take care of my own personal needs as well as his and my children's to the best of my ability and not feel guilty when I can't."

The oncologist thought about that for a moment. He wanted something similar, actually.

Sighing heavily, Wilson confessed, his voice very quiet, "When I'm discharged I want to win my best friend back; I'm in love with him and he told me that he was in love with me. I pushed him away to protect him from me so he could focus on starting over new, happy and sober. I want to be a supportive, loving partner while not allowing myself to become so focused on House that I neglect my own needs; that only leads to my ending up bitter and resentful as a result. I want to be able to accept the fact that I'm gay and not feel ashamed and guilty about it. I'm tired of hiding."

"I think those are good goals," Alex told him in encouragement. "Thank you for being willing to share with us. I'm now going to open it up for questions from the group. I want to remind the group that some questions can be hurtful and to avoid them. If you feel that a question is too private or personal to answer, James, you can refuse to answer but I encourage you to be as open as you can be. Also, I want to remind everybody that talking amongst yourselves _outside_ of group about what James has told you _in_ group is not allowed unless James is willing to discuss anything with you. If that happens, I want that discussion brought to group and discussed the next day. Okay?"

There was general consensus and Wilson felt much more at ease.

"Sherri, let's start with you," Alex directed. "Do you have a question for James?"

She nodded and then turned to Wilson, smiling warmly. "How long have you known that you were gay and why did you try to hide it?"

Wilson felt himself flush slightly. He swallowed hard. "Well," he answered cautiously, "I've known I was sexually attracted to men since I was fourteen. I had to hide it back then because I knew my parents would freak out if they knew. I'm Jewish, and while my family was never very religious, homosexuality was—is—strongly opposed by a large number of members of the Jewish community, my parents being among them. I was genuinely afraid that my father would disown me or even hurt me if he knew. After I left home and went to college, then med school, I became increasingly aware that in the medical community there was a strong disadvantage to being openly gay. While nothing was said in words, it was apparent that an ambitious young doctor had a better chance of establishing himself in the medical community if he was heterosexual, married with the intention of having two-point-four kids, a dog and a house in the suburbs. Hospital administrators tended to hire heterosexuals over individuals who lived alternative lifestyles and most patients felt more at ease with a doctor who was a married man in a traditional relationship than with a gay man in a same-sex partnership. That and my fear of my family finding out were strong reasons to keep me from coming out of the closet. I felt like a bad son and a bad Jew so I've spent more than half my life trying to convince myself and others that I was straight."

"When did you decide to come out of the closet?" another woman in the semi-circle asked him. He couldn't remember her name.

"After my best friend attempted suicide twice in two days," the doctor admitted, meeting her gaze even though it was difficult to do so. "I've known for years that I was in love with him but I forced myself to deny it until then. I realized how close I had come to losing him for good, never having told him how I really felt about him."

"You mentioned that your friend was a doctor, too and then you called him House," Fiona told him and then asked, "Did you know that he was in love with you too before he attempted suicide?"

"I suspected that he might have had feelings for me," Wilson admitted. "There were indications, some of which I missed at the time but which I recognized after he told me that he loved me. I didn't know for certain, though, and I didn't want to risk losing him if he didn't have feelings for me so I kept it hidden from him. I wanted him in my life, even if it meant we remained just friends forever."

"So he wasn't openly gay either?" Fiona questioned. "You both were hiding your true sexualities from each other?"

A sad smirk hit Wilson's lips. "Yeah, we were. House is bisexual; during our friendship he fell in love and lived with a woman for five years or so before he suffered an infarction with muscle tissue death that left one of his legs crippled and him in permanent pain. She left him shortly after and left me to pick up the pieces of what was left of a very devastated and bitter man. He didn't date for years following that. He did become infatuated with our boss at the hospital and pursued a relationship with her but she hurt him when she toyed with his emotions while secretly involved with another man and he found out accidentally. Then I hooked up with my first ex again in a desperate attempt to keep myself from revealing my true feelings to him. After he attempted suicide I realized that I didn't love her because I was in love with House. He told me that he didn't tell me that he was in love with me for the same reasons I hadn't told him."

"You two were idiots," Hank told him with a half-smile.

Wilson had to chuckle a little at that. "Yeah, we were."

The unnamed woman spoke up again. "Did you ever feel frustrated when you lost a patient or when your friend tried to kill himself? I think I would have."

"Yes," the oncologist admitted ruefully, looking down at his glass which was now empty; he couldn't remember finishing the water in it. "All the time. It's my job to heal my patients, to help them get better but when it comes to cancer that isn't always possible. When the cancer wins I feel angry, like I failed and the monster stole another life from me. I get angry at the injustice of it, how it hits the good and the bad, the old and the young alike. The worst is when the patient is a child. I remember holding an infant that had been abandoned by his mother when it was discovered that he had leukemia. He died in my arms with no one to love and grieve for him. He was so innocent. He hadn't had a chance to fuck up in life or do something that he deserved to die for. I started screaming at God, fate and life and death in general. I'm pretty certain my staff thought I had gone mad. Maybe I had for a few minutes."

"That baby did have someone to love and grieve for him," Fiona told him. "He had _you_."

Wilson looked away from her and closed his eyes for a few moments. He wasn't certain how much more of this bearing of his soul he could handle.

"As a doctor I'm supposed to be more objective and detached from my patients," Wilson murmured. "I try to be, but I keep getting drawn into their lives and their pain. No matter how hard I try not to I can't _help_ but care about them. After a while it began to wear on me. When that happens, when I get sucked down into depression and a feeling of hopelessness and futility I need something to help me deal with the anger and pain, so I drink."

"You _used_ to drink," Alex pointed out to him, "_past_ tense. You came here to learn how to deal with those emotions in a healthier way. You'll get there. James, you've said that you have felt like you 'failed' and 'lost' when a patient died. Do you blame yourself for their deaths?"

Unable to meet the therapist's gaze Wilson hesitated in answering. He felt guilty for every patient of his that had died. He told himself that there was something he missed or something that he could have done differently that would have resulted in their surviving rather than dying. Rationality said that it wasn't his fault, that there were some battles he couldn't win no matter how hard he fought for his patients but the emotional part of him told him otherwise.

"I don't want to answer that question," he answered quietly, shaking his head. Wilson felt like he was going to be sick to his stomach soon. "In fact, I'm not feeling well and I'd like to go back to my room now."

Alex nodded slowly. "Alright, James. Do you need help? A nurse, perhaps?"

"No," the oncologist assured him weakly, "I just need to lie down for a while. May I go?"

The therapist glanced at his watch. "Well, our time is just about up for today anyway so I think we'll finish early and everyone can go and relax for a while before dinner."

That was received well by all and the room was quickly vacated by all but Alex and Wilson, the latter holding onto his stomach and was slightly bent over in his chair.

Alex was at his side again, "I'm going to call a nurse," he told Wilson gently.

"No, please," Wilson insisted, looking up at him, "I'm fine. I can get to my room on my own, really. It's just that…" His voice trailed off as he tried to figure out what he needed to say.

Alex sat down in the chair next to him. "Just what, James?"

Wilson sighed, his eyes tearing up, and answered, "I think the only thing holding me together anymore is my anger. All I feel anymore is anger and deep, deep sadness. I can't go on much longer feeling this way."

"I know," Alex answered empathetically. "But if you keep working as hard and opening up like you did today, it will get better. You won't feel like this forever. You just need to be patient and give yourself a break. You're not perfect, and here you don't have to be."

"You don't understand," Wilson told him desperately. "I've fucked up everything—my relationships, my health, my reputation and my career. How can I ever feel happy again when I have nothing to go to when I leave here?"

"There isn't a single thing you've done that you can't recover from with a little patience, effort and self-respect," Alex assured him with a small smile. "You're talking to somebody who knows. Now, let me walk you to your room where you can lie down and rest until dinner, okay?"

Wilson nodded and rose to his feet at the same time as the therapist. Together they walked toward Wilson's room in silence.

**A/N 2: Sorry for the long delay before updating this. I found this chapter ridiculously hard to write and I'm not certain why. Thanks for your patience!**


	46. Chapter 46 Part 3 Ch 12

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **5946

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Twelve: Saturday, July 3, 2010; 4:12 P.M.**

It was humid and hot, small, puffy cumulus clouds the only barrier between the sun and the top of House's head. He had been 'supervising' the crew from the table and chair rental company setting up under the large tents that had been set up earlier that day when his leg began cramping up. To prevent it from getting out of control again he stood up and, leaning heavily on his cane, went for a walk around the large yard surrounding Hutton's house. The ground was firm enough that his cane didn't sink into the earth and the grass had been cut short and neat by David on the garden tractor so it wasn't a snag or trip threat.

While he was on his feet he had an agenda. Since hearing about Stephania's visitor the other night House had been unable to stop thinking about it. He knew that the security system Hutton had had put into her home was top rate. It was the same system that was supposed to guard the gate on the driveway leading to the yard. Somehow this stalker had bypassed the system and managed to climb into a second floor window to leave his note on Stephania's bed. He also had to have known in advance which room was the fifteen-year-old's. That implied a kind of familiarity with the security system and layout of the house.

The most likely suspect, in House's mind, was anyone who had been in the Hutton home before, likely as a guest, patient, or service worker. That was still an unwieldy list of people considering the fact that the psychiatrist opened her home yearly to the entire county. There was also the possibility that the stalker may have been watching Hutton and her family for weeks, even months. Even if he had never been inside the house he could have been in the yard at night peeping through windows with high-powered lenses. There were a few factors that would eliminate potential suspects, however.

They knew that the stalker was male and in his late twenties, early thirties, average in build and in fairly good physical condition. Also, the stalker had knowledge of the home and movements of the Hutton family and had the required knowledge and skill to disarm complicated security systems and breaking into homes. That indicated a certain level of sophistication, perhaps a law enforcement officer or electronics expert of some kind. Finally, he had some kind of grudge or obsession with the Huttons; no run of the mill crook or deviant would go to the trouble this guy had. That was what concerned House the most—they were dealing with a motivated, intelligent sociopath.

He found himself standing just below Stephania's bedroom window, taking care not to disturb anything on the ground around him. There was nothing on or around the house for someone to use to scale the wall up to the window. He looked down at the ground, searching for any sign of indentations in the earth that could indicate that a ladder was used but there weren't any. It was possible that any such impressions could have been disturbed by the police or CSIs during their investigation but that seemed unlikely since they were trained to be extremely careful not to disturb possible evidence at a crime scene. Accidents happened but infrequently.

House turned slowly in a circle, surveying the lay of the land, as it were, in that part of the yard. His blue eyes carefully scanned everything around him. A lazy bumblebee bobbed and jagged as it buzzed within an inch of his nose as it flew by. Songbirds whistled, trilled and tweeted occasionally where they hid, avoiding the scorching heat. He felt a drop of sweat trickle down the side of his face from his right temple.

About twenty yards away was a naturally occurring wind belt of trees made up mostly of conifers common to the area mixed with deciduous trees, mostly paper birch and white oak. Cursing the fact that everything on the property was separated by long walks that were murder for a cripple he headed towards that strip of trees. As he neared the wind belt he had to step more carefully because the ground beneath his feet was a little more uneven. Once he reached the belt he looked back at the house and then calculated the spot where someone could easily see the bedroom window without anything obstructing the view. At that spot was a large white oak, perfect to bear a treehouse, with limbs that spread out everywhere, three or four of which were thick enough to the bear the weight of an average-sized man and low enough for said man to climb onto if he were healthy and able-bodied. From those limbs climbing up to window-level would have been similar to climbing a ladder.

House looked down at the ground at the foot of said tree, looking for anything one wouldn't expect to find there. There was no indication that the police had been anywhere near this tree; saplings stood straight and tall and low-lying plants were lush and full, not trampled and broken from being stepped on. He didn't see anything that didn't normally occupy that space. He circled the tree, being careful to keep himself about three feet from the base. It was then that he saw a reflection of diffused sunlight in among the green. He pulled an unused tissue out of his jeans pocket and bent down slowly, a twinge in his ruined thigh causing him to wince ever so slightly; he used the tissue to pick up a small piece of a clear plastic wrapper without having to touch it directly. It was just a fragment, perhaps half-an inch by an inch and a half with jagged edges where it had been torn. There was no writing or symbols on it and it looked quite clean. He sniffed it cautiously, detecting no perceivable scent. Wrapping the tissue around it he put it into the other front pocket.

His eyes moved up the tree as he circled it again, looking for any sign of someone climbing up the tree. There was a small scuff in the bark on the limb nearest to him. Some of the bark had been broken and displaced. It could have been done by a deer or other woodland animal but he doubted it. Grabbing his cellphone off of his belt House snapped a quick picture of the scuff.

"Playing Sherlock Holmes, Dr. House?"

Startled, House looked behind him to see Stephania approaching him. She wore two spaghetti-strapped tank-tops layered one upon the other and a pair of disturbingly short low-rise denim cut-offs. On her feet were gladiator-style sandals exposing toenails painted royal purple, which matched her fingernails.

"Hmph," House said in acknowledgement of her presence. "Does your mother know you walk around dressed like that?" he asked her, lifting an eyebrow.

Stephania frowned a little, looking at her clothes. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"Oh, nothing," House answered sarcastically, "if you're on the prowl."

The teen looked up at him and then smiled, rolling her eyes. "I never took you for being an old fuddy-duddy about the way people dress," she told him.

"You're barely dressed," he replied, turning his eyes back to the tree. "Believe me, if you walk around in public like that you'll attract the attention of any heterosexual male or lesbian within a mile of you."

Her smile turned crooked, "Maybe that's the idea—the heterosexual part, that is."

"Do you have any idea what goes on in a guy's mind when he's staring at an attractive, scantily clothed young woman?" House asked her.

"I'm fifteen, not five, Doctor House," she told him, folding her arms across her C-cup breasts. "I think I do."

House looked back at her and smirked, "You have no idea."

"Do you think that way when you look at me?" Stephania asked in challenge.

That made House cringe almost imperceptibly and shudder. Perhaps if he didn't know her and he saw her walking down the street his eye would be caught briefly but he really wasn't into underage girls no matter what some people believed—especially girls as underaged as she was. He couldn't help feeling a little protective of her, after all. That fact surprised him.

"Uh, no," he told her. "That's just creepy on too many levels. I'm lecherous but not pedophilic. It's not too smart to have that much skin exposed outside on a sunny day standing where deer likely frequent. You're lunch to disease-carrying mosquitoes and ticks not to mention a prime candidate for a sunburn."

She shrugged with the typical disregard of a teenager who believed she was somehow immune to disease and death. "You didn't answer my question," she reminded him.

"I'm a doctor, not a fictional super-sleuth," House answered as he picked out the branch that would be the best one to perch on if someone was surveilling Stephania's bedroom with a set of binoculars or a telephoto lens.

"And yet here you are," she pointed out. "Let me guess, you're into bird-watching, right?"

"Wrong," he quipped back immediately, "I'm a druid looking for a decent place to worship. Do you mind?"

"Not at all," she replied, grinning now. "Just no human sacrifices to the tree-gods. I don't think Mom would appreciate that sort of thing occurring in her backyard."

"Who would?" House asked, straight-faced. "The smell would be terrible."

"You're right," Stephania agreed, playing along. "The neighbors would likely complain."

House turned away from her so she wouldn't see the smile he wore. In many ways she was a brilliant young woman. Unfortunately she was also incredibly naïve.

"How well do you climb trees?" House asked her. Stephania looked the tree over, looking up.

"Pretty well," she replied with a shrug.

"Good," he told her, gesturing to the tree with his cane. "Get your mostly-naked self over here and up this tree. Find that crooked branch there," again he used his cane as a pointer, "and tell me how well a person could look into your room from there. Also, look for any indications that someone other than yourself or David has been up their recently."

"How do you know that the police haven't already done this?" Stephania asked him as she tightened her sandals and then began to limberly scale the oak. She had the sure-footedness of a tomboy. He envied her mobility. Watching her from below he wondered again if he shouldn't talk to her mother about what her daughter wore. He knew that if he had been a hyper-hormonal seventeen-year-old again and didn't think of her in a pseudo-paternal way he'd be all over her, or at least try. He had to look away, feeling _squicky_.

"I don't," House answered, "but from what I know about average cops they're usually idiots or borderline idiots so I highly doubt that they have."

"Why do you call people names like 'idiot' or 'moron'?" Stephania asked him, frowning slightly. "It's usually inaccurate and can be hurtful. We can't all be a genius like you."

"You sound like your mother," House told her, making a sour face. "For you life is all sunshine and roses, and if everybody was just nice to each other the world would be a better place."

Stephania grunted as she reached for a branch and then pulled herself up with it. "For you life has been a roller coaster of ups and downs but you started below sea level and for every up there have been two downs," she observed, "or so I gather. You think that everybody should just fight it out, winner take all, while you hole up like a hermit and wait for it all to pass."

House was quiet a moment, struck with how profound her statement was, especially for a fifteen-year-old. "Who told you that?" he asked guardedly. "Your mom?"

"My mom isn't the only one who can observe things about people, you know," Stephania told him indignantly. "I've heard bits and pieces of conversations and I'm not a baby—I understand a lot more than you think. Plus you've mentioned some things to me in passing that I've managed to piece together." She reached the spot and exhaled in relief. "You can see my room perfectly. At night with the lights on inside, somebody sitting up here could see pretty much everything. Note to self: always close my curtains from now on."

House nodded in satisfaction. That's exactly what he had suspected.

"Good," he told her.

"I think I've found some proof that somebody has been up here," she called down to him, grinning. "There's a cigarette butt stuck in the little crack where a smaller branch juts out of the larger one!"

"Bingo!" House said, a small smile cracking his stony complexion. "Don't touch it. That little piece of paper and tobacco hold evidentiary gold that mustn't be contaminated."

"Saliva, right? DNA?" Stephania asked.

"Right. How much TV do you watch a week?" he demanded good-naturedly.

"Less than you," she replied with a smile. "I like reading mystery and true crime novels."

"You need a life," he told her. "You should get out more with people your own age—wearing clothing, that is."

"This _is_ clothing," she retorted indignantly, "I have a clean tissue in my pocket. Do you want me to pick up the butt with it and bring it down?"

"That would make giving it to the police a lot easier, yes," House answered sarcastically. Stephania rolled her eyes and gathered the cigarette but with the tissue so as not to touch it directly with her hands. She wrapped it in the tissue and tucked it into her pocket before slowly making her way back down to the ground, "I do have a life; I live with other people. You live all alone over at your place and all you do when you're at home is watch TV or play your piano."

"Don't forget my guitars," he told her, "or my harmonicas. Besides, I'm not always alone. I tend to have pests invade from time to time and then Justin is over frequently."

She jumped to the ground and then slapped her hands together to get rid of any dirt and bark fragments on them. She was breathing a little harder than usual but not much.

"Yeah," she replied, a bemused look on her face, "for sleepovers. Gage has been sleeping over a lot at our place, too."

"Does that bother you?" House asked, watching her face carefully.

"No…" she answered and then after a moment looked up at him questioningly. "Can I ask you something?"

House looked at her blankly until something occurred to him.

"Oh gawd!" the diagnostician groaned, "haven't you had this talk with your mother yet?" He began to limp with his cane back towards the house and Stephania matched his stride with her long legs.

"You mean the one that begins with the line, 'Boys and girls are special but different' and then goes into some inane discussion using medically correct terminology and my mother blushing and remembering a phone call she has to make?" the teen asked sardonically. "Oh, yeah. Don't worry. I know the names of all the parts and what they're functions are. I just had some questions about relationships…you know, the kind that you can't have with your parents because they'll freak out and jump to conclusions and worst case scenarios?"

House smirked a little at that. His father had informed him about sex by threatening to cut his dick off if he got a girl pregnant out of wedlock—a bonding moment he wished he could forget, to be certain. He learned from other guys talking, movies, skin magazines and pornos, then by experience, not from anything his parents might have drilled into his head.

"Can't you talk to Linda, or Gage or anyone other than me?" he asked, whining slightly. To say that he was feeling uncomfortable would have been an understatement of epic proportions.

"No," Stephania answered. "Auntie Linda is just like mom only much louder and Gage? Well, dude, he's doing my mom; that mental picture alone is enough to give a girl PTSD. There's no way I could talk to him about it."

"A school guidance counselor?" House continued, "or a friend's mom?"

She punched his arm lightly.

"Ouch," he said flatly, giving her a glare. He sighed in resignation. "Can we at least sit in the shade to do this?"

"Of course," she replied with a smile, pleased with herself for getting him to capitulate. They went to sit on the deck swing on the veranda where they were shaded from the sun. The storm door on the rear entrance was open and the glass on the screen door had been raised to allow airflow through the house. Hutton and Bonnar had the stereo on loud as they cooked and the music drifted out to the veranda. The diagnostician got off his feet with a grateful moan while Stephania went inside and game back out a couple of minutes later with two seating glasses of ice cold lemonade and handed one to him. He took it with an appreciative nod and she sat next to him.

"I just about didn't make it back outside," she told him with a lop-sided smile. "Mom almost recruited me to make the potato salad for tomorrow. I told her that you needed my help with something."

He nodded. "Great," he grumbled, "blame it on the gimp, why don't you?"

They sat in silence for a little while, drinking their lemonades. House was just hoping that she'd changed her mind about their conversation when she spoke up.

"How old were you when you had sex for the first time?" Stephania asked him bluntly, avoiding looking at him. House was glad she didn't want to look at him because if she did he would have to work harder at hiding his own discomfort. He was curious about where this question was coming from.

"I was about your age. She was the only person in my class that actually talked to the nerdy new kid," he told her, sotto voce. There was no hint of sarcasm or derision in his words or tone of voice. "It was after a school football game that I had taken her to. I remember that she wore a tight sweater that was low enough in the front to allow me a full view of what was an impressive cleavage for a fifteen year old girl. I'd heard all the stories from the other guys in the locker rooms and from certain non-coms on the military base when I'd sneak out of the house at night to meet up with them and smoke some dope. Don't tell your mother I told you that."

Stephania smiled. "I've smoked weed before. It's not like you're corrupting me or anything."

"Does your mom know you've used?" House warily. He didn't want to know these things. He didn't want to get into trouble if Hutton ever found out and then learned he knew about it before she did and didn't give her a heads up.

"Yeah," Stephania answered. "By the time my grounding was over my friends didn't recognize me anymore."

House smirked at that, relaxing. "Anyway, I thought I knew it all and knew absolutely about putting what I knew to practice. I can only tell you this from a male point of view. The last time I checked I wasn't a girl. It was okay but not as good as I had hoped. I came in thirty seconds and she asked me when I was going to start."

That caused the fifteen-year-old to laugh so hard that tears streamed down her cheeks. House wanted to laugh with her but that would have been so not him, or rather, the House people were used to seeing so he held back; he only allowed a hint of a smile to show.

"Hey," he grumped, "I was inexperienced and pumped full of hormones! I've improved vastly since then."

"I'm sorry," the teen said, trying to stop her laughter. She wiped the tears away and once she was mostly pulled together again she continued in a small voice. "I've been dating a guy from science camp…"

"Jeremy," House added knowingly. When she looked at him in surprise he shrugged. "Can I help it if your brother has a big mouth?"

"Yes, Jeremy," she confirmed. "We haven't been dating in the normal sense since he lives in Philly and doesn't own a car and I live out here, without my driver's license. But we've been having lunch together every day, making out…well, you get the idea."

"I have a dirty mind so my idea of what you mean is likely greatly different from what you mean—I hope," the diagnostician informed her, raising an eyebrow.

"We haven't had sex…yet," she told him. "On Wednesday I've made plans to stay in town after science camp with a friend of mine from high school. That's what Mom knows. The truth is, my friend is going to her grandmother's to visit her and I'm meeting Jeremy. I know that he wants to do it, and I _think_ I want to-"

"Stop there,"' House told her, looking the girl in the eye. "If you don't know for certain, if you have doubts, you're not ready. It has nothing to do with the fact that at your age your brain isn't fully developed and you're incapable of completely reasoning out the full consequences of your actions so you'll make stupid, impulsive decisions. You don't want to put yourself in a vulnerable place and not be confident that you're safe. Yeah, yeah, I know…I sound like a PSA…just don't let him put a hand on you unless it's definitely something you want. Otherwise, it's too easy to be pressured into it even if you decide you don't want to. Is he pressuring you?"

When Stephania hesitated answering House sighed and shook his head. "How old is this guy and what has he been saying?" he demanded.

Stephania was reluctant to answer but she did. "He's seventeen but he turns eighteen next month. He said that he really likes me and wants to take our relationship to the next level. When I told him that I wasn't certain I was ready for that he told me how he wasn't about to stick around and wait for me to decide whether I really wanted this relationship or not. Jeremy said that if I really like him then…then I'll do it."

House felt anger start to surge inside of him and was surprised at his own strong reaction. His hands tightened into fists without him being aware of it.

"If you do nothing else I ever tell you, do this: dump his ass the next time you see him," House told her intensely. "You're an attractive, brilliant girl—so quit acting like an idiot! Any pathetic little fuck that would threaten to dump you because you're not ready isn't worthy of a second glance from you. If he was standing here right now he would be leaving this yard in an ambulance. Do you get my drift?"

Stephania looked at him, apparently stunned at his words and the intensity with which he had said them. She simply nodded, unable to speak. Before House knew it she had him in a bear hug and then gave him a kiss on his scruffy cheek; he rolled his eyes but had to admit that it wasn't such a hard thing to endure. The teen then hurried into the house without another word. House sat there, uncertain about what had just happened.

He sighed. "When the hell did I become Dr. Ruth?" he muttered to himself and then took a drink of his lemonade.

**Saturday, July 3, 2010; 9:30 P.M.**

Senseless babble left Justin Clee's mouth as he climaxed a half second before House did. He practically collapsed on him, unable to do anything more than breathe as his incredibly intense orgasm took over his mind and body. When he began to descend from the endorphin high he realized that he'd been chuckling and did his best to stop that. He rolled to lie next to his lover and then snuggled up close to him. A smile crossed his lips when he felt House wrap his arms around him possessively and pull him closer. The diagnostician placed a kiss on his forehead. Clee sighed contentedly.

The surgeon felt closer to the older man lying with him that he had anyone since he'd lost Charlie. He'd been certain that he would never again love anyone as much as he had loved Charlie…until now. He admitted to himself that he'd fallen in love with the cranky, sarcastic, loving and caring diagnostician and never wanted to lose him for any reason. Someone like him didn't get lucky very often in life and it had happened twice for him. He didn't want to test fate so he was going to hold onto this man with all that he had in him, fight for him if it ever became necessary and protect him even if it meant putting himself in harm's way to do it. From what House had admitted to him about his past there had been too fucking few people who had loved him the way he deserved and Clee wanted to be the one who wouldn't rest until he'd made up for that even if it took the rest of his life.

He only hoped that House felt the same way. Clee knew that the older doctor cared deeply for him; not only had he said so but his everyday actions spoke of his affection louder that any words could possibly do. He just didn't know whether or not House was in love with him, or if he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Clee. The thought of his lover one day telling him that he was moving on without him was an incredibly painful and frightening one, something he hoped he would never hear. Clee wanted to tell House just how much he loved him but was afraid that saying it so soon might frighten him away.

Sighing, Clee nuzzled his face into House's neck and place small kisses there.

"What's the matter?" House asked him drowsily, being almost completely spent by their lovemaking.

Clee chastised himself for the sigh. "Nothing," he responded with a smile and more kisses. "Everything is perfect."

"Humph," House sounded, gently caressing the younger man's back in circular patterns. "Why don't I believe you?"

"I don't know," the surgeon replied, finding House's earlobe and nibbling on it before taking it into his mouth and sucking on it for a few seconds. "It's true. There's nowhere else I'd rather be right now."

"So what was the sigh about?"

He didn't know how to answer that without having to tell him enough to have to tell him everything. Clee swallowed hard. "I…uh,…"

"Come on, spit it out," the diagnostician told him.

"I'm afraid to," Clee whispered honestly. "I don't want to ruin what we've got by speaking out of turn."

House was silent for a moment but his caresses didn't stop. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked quietly.

Raising himself up on an elbow, he looked down at House with a frown. "No, you most certainly didn't. Why do you always assume the worst about yourself? Has it ever occurred to you that you may not be the bugger you think you are? Maybe I'm the one who's done something wrong. Have you ever considered that?"

"Okay," House replied, eyeing his lover warily, "so, what did _you_ do, then?"

Clee was quiet for a long moment. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, ignoring House's bewildered expression when he said, "If you want to leave after this, I won't blame you, Greg. I don't expect you to do anything differently from what you are now."

A sigh escaped from House now and he appeared to be scanning him with his eyes, assessing him as Clee imagined he would one of his patients. "What—is there something wrong with you? Are you sick?" There was definite concern in his voice.

Seeing the fear in House's eyes Clee reached over and cupped his cheek to reassure him. "No, no it's nothing like that. I'm fine, physically. _Really_."

"Then, what is it?" the older man demanded, looking a little irritated. He sat up and leaned against the headboard. Something must have occurred to the diagnostician because the irritation evaporated quickly and was replaced by the fear again plus hurt. "Is there…someone else?"

The surgeon was stunned by the question. When he realized what House must have been feeling he sat up, shaking his head and cupping House's face with both hands now.

"What? Oh god, no! No, there's no one else! I promise you!" Clee exclaimed, realizing he had to come out and say it now. "In fact…I've fallen in love with you. That's what I meant. I don't want anyone but you. Nobody else could compare!"

As if to punctuate his point, Clee leaned in and kissed House before the older man could say anything. He poured all of the love he felt for the other man into that kiss. It was passionate, loving, hungry and reassuring all at once. When he came up for air he leaned his forehead against House's shoulder and waited for the sky to fall down all around him.

"You don't have to say anything," the surgeon whispered. "I don't expect you to feel the same way."

"Why not?" House's deep and growly voice demanded immediately.

Clee lifted his head quickly to look at him. His heart was pounding so fast and hard that he wouldn't have been surprised if House could have taken his pulse by just looking at him. He didn't want to get his hopes up but couldn't help it.

"T-to which part?" Clee asked, stammering slightly.

"To both," House answered. "Why don't you expect it? Have I given you any reason to question how I feel about you? What haven't I done that I could have to make things clearer? Jesus Christ, Justin, what do I have to do to convince you that I feel the same way?"

Even though he sounded frustrated the surgeon could see the twinkle in House's sexy blue eyes that he got when he was teasing and a smile was fighting hard at the corners of his mouth.

"Cat got your tongue?" House asked him, smiling slyly.

Justin broke into a grin and shook his head. "No, you do," he told him before kissing House hard and deeply, pushing his tongue into the older man's more than willing mouth.

**Saturday, July 3, 2010; 9:30 P.M.**

He looked up at the knock on his door. In the assisted living house he was almost never allowed to be alone for very long. That's why he enjoyed going to work where he could help the techs set up security systems in businesses and homes. One of the guys working with him, Cory, had the coolest car and had told him he could borrow it sometime if he ever got a date. He wasn't supposed to be driving it alone because he didn't have his driver's license, but Cory wasn't concerned and had already let him borrow it a few times.

"Come in," he said, scratching his head through his mop of deep brown hair with his pen.

The door opened and a young man in his mid-Twenties stepped just inside the room. It was Reid, one of the workers who lived at the house and acted as a supervisor. He was more like a friend to most of the guys, including him.

"Hey Joe, Whatcha know?" Reid asked with a warm smile. 'Joe' looked up at the younger man and smiled crookedly, his dimples showing.

"Not much. Just writing a letter."

"To whom?" Reid asked, pulling up a chair and sitting.

"Family." Joe set his pen down. "You know that letter I got the other day? The one I was so excited about? I'm writing back."

"Sounds good," the supervisor told him. "I came by to see how you're doing, how work is going."

"You wanna know if I took my evening meds," Joe added knowingly, cocking a bushy eyebrow. "I told you. I'm serious this time. I wanna real life. I need to finish my letter first or I'll fall asleep before I do. I'll take 'em."

"I know you will," Reid told him with a smile. "You've been doing fabulously. We're all very proud. So, no hallucinations, visual or auditory? No paranoia?"

"No," Joe answered and then corrected, "Well, the other day I felt like someone was watching me for a couple of minutes but I told myself that no one was and it passed."

"Excellent!" Reid said, smiling and standing up, putting the chair back where it belonged. "Well, gotta go finish my checks. Goodnight."

"'Night," Joe answered as the supervisor left. He sighed and picked up his pen and paper again, continuing where he left off. "'_I'm glad Mom and Dad let you know where I am. I'm doing really well—I'm taking my med, seeing my doctor regularlys and I even have a job. The other guys staying here are okay but I wish I could hang out with you. Maybe when you're done in Texas you can visit me and we can go to a movie or something? I'm going to a BBQ tomorrow for the Fourth. Wish you could come with me. Maybe next Fourth we can do something together. I miss you, Jimmy. Get better. Love, Danny._'"


	47. Chapter 47 Part 3 Ch 13

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **7739

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Thirteen: Sunday, July 4, 2010; 8:08 A.M.**

The day started early for Olivia Hutton, her children, and her best friend who had spent the weekend at her place to help with the preparations for the annual BBQ. She couldn't get over how many people had told her she was crazy to proceed with the yearly event considering the stalking and near kidnapping that had taken place to her family recently. They didn't understand her need to stand up to bullies of all shapes and kinds but it was something she had determined to do at a young age and old habits were diehard.

As a child she had been shy and small, two deadly attributes for a smart little girl attending a school that was delegated as a remedial school in her district; she went there simply because her parents had decided to send her to the closest school to their home. She remembered being called teacher's pet, ass-kisser, goody-two-shoes among other more vile names simply because she had an above average IQ and a desire to learn rather than slack off, cause chaos in class for the teacher and end up like everyone else—living lives of quiet desperation and never achieving their full potential. Names hadn't been the only form of bullying she'd had to endure. On a daily basis she was followed home from school by two or three classmates and beaten up, spat on and humiliated before she made it to safety. "Safety" was a relative term considering she was the bastard child, the oops and family embarrassment that nobody in her so-called family really wanted around.

Hutton had found that when she didn't stand up to the bullies they had beat on her worse than when she had at least put up a fight, even if in the end she had ended up losing anyway. She was able to maintain a little bit of self-respect knowing that she wasn't willingly being treated like a door mat. If she hadn't had that sense of esteem for herself she never would have made it through her childhood a sane individual. The situation she found herself now was the same sort of thing. If she had cancelled the BBQ and holed up in her house huddling in fear she would have looked in the mirror and seen a coward staring back, a coward that didn't think enough of herself to make her stand no matter the consequences. The bullies were not going to steal her freedom and self-dignity from her if she had anything to say about it.

There were quite a few last minute things to take care of and all had to be done before ten o'clock since some people from the community tended to arrive just after ten each year. The tent, tables and chairs had been rented from the same place she rented them in the past and had been set up by the company that delivered them. Before leaving on another long haul Gary Bonnar , Gage and Bryce (with some help from David) had set up the stage for the talent show and run heavy duty outdoor electrical cords everywhere they would be needed throughout the day. A dance-floor at the base of the stage had been put together as well. House and Clee had agreed to get the sound system and stage set up and run sound checks for talent show participants (well, Clee had agreed and had promised House something that the psychiatrist was certain was more than NC-17 worthy if he gave him a hand).

After breakfast Linda would help Stephania set up the tables with red-checked vinyl table cloths and assemble the beverage station, condiment station and dessert tables and make certain that everything was stocked—paper plates, plastic glasses, Styrofoam coffee cups, plastic cutlery, napkins galore and so on. The interior of the white tents had already been festooned with streamers, banners, ribbons and balloons in red, white and blue and table centers had been carefully constructed with small flags and red and white flowers. They would also set up trash and recycling barrels around the acreage.

On the west lawn a friend and neighbor of Hutton's had arranged as a fundraiser for the county crisis shelter for victims of domestic violence a penny carnival and play area for the pee wee guests of the BBQ. Volunteers from the shelter were going to be running the booths and activities that included a kissing booth, dunk tank, face-painting station, sprinklers (for running through) and inflated bouncy house.

On the east lawn was an area set up for Bocce Ball, horseshoe toss, pie-eating contest, three-legged race and badminton (House had said that he was going to enter the three legged race on his own and kick ass). In the back field, near the small pond, the fireworks launch was located. Members of the local volunteer fire department would be present but House had been assured that he got to pick out the fireworks and help with the launching. Hutton couldn't get over just how big of an overgrown kid the diagnostician really was and it pleased her to know that he was voluntarily involving himself in the activities rather than hole up in his house and play the Independence Day version of Ebenezer Scrooge. She knew that Clee had a lot to do with that.

A canteen booth had been set up by David's soccer team to raise funds for their upcoming tournament trip. Soda pop, candy bars, potato chips, miscellaneous other junk food including cotton candy and freshly popped corn were purchased by the team in bulk at wholesale prices or donated by businesses sponsoring their team and all profits from the sales went to the team fund. There was also a bar set up that would provide beer, wine, coolers and cocktails; guests could buy up to five tickets each for the entire day at the reception table and would exchange those tickets at the bar for the drinks. That way the adults got to enjoy a few drinks without things getting out of control with those who had difficulty determining when enough was enough. Hutton had hired a professional bartending team to run things and make certain that no one under twenty-one was served. There were also hydration stands where cooler jugs filled with fresh water would be available. At the reception table was sunblock lotion available for those who forgot their own as well as antibacterial hand gels. Port-a-potties and sun-warmed camping shower bags filled with water were available for hand washing after. Mothers with babies and small children were encouraged to use the bathrooms inside the house as were those with disabilities.

*Hutton's living room had been transformed into a makeshift first aid station complete with cots and cotton blankets, first aid supplies, sunblock, sunburn aloe vera gel and volunteers from St. Luke's taking shifts to run the place and the local ambulance service on speed dial, just in case. Hutton had made certain that in the first aid station as well as a couple of booths around the acreage was supplied with Epi-pens to be safe.

The main menu items for the BBQ lunch and dinner were being prepared by a professional catering company. There would be hamburgers, veggie burgers, beef hot dogs and veggie hotdogs at lunch, free to all courtesy Hutton. Potato salad, coleslaw, baked beans, cut raw vegetables with dip and roasted corn on the cob had been prepared by Hutton et al. For dessert there would be frozen yogurt, soy frozen dessert, shortcake with a choice of strawberries or blueberries, and fresh fruit including watermelon. Dinner would be available by purchasing tickets at the reception table and would include roast beef, baby back ribs and a tofu stir-fry with several hot and cold side dishes and salads and dessert would be a variety of cakes, bars, tarts and a cheese and fruit platter. Every detail had been taken care of, including alternative items and choices for those with various common allergies and dietary concerns.

Hutton had a continental breakfast ready for all involved in getting everything ready and operating the event by seven-thirty in the large dining tent outside. House and Clee hadn't arrived yet but that didn't really surprise the psychiatrist. She had to smile every time she thought about them. The surgeon had been so good for House, giving him the confidence boost to know that he was still sexy, attractive and desirable to someone other than Wilson. House had been good for Clee as well; the latter had been so lonely after Charlie's death and had needed someone to keep him company and keep him out of trouble.

She ate quickly, just some fruit and a yogurt/granola parfait, before gathering up signs that had been made years ago and reused over and over again. They simply read "Hutton BBQ" and then arrows or word directions to help people find her acreage without any difficulty. She was loading them onto her truck when a white panel van with the logo of the security company she had hired to set up her system pulled up her driveway, followed closely behind by a sheriff's department patrol car. She figured the two sheriff's deputies inside were the uniformed presence being made available as the detectives had told her. They would keep an eye out for trouble during the BBQ and by wearing their uniforms they would, hopefully, act as a deterrent to the creep that was haunting her family both night and day.

Two men emerged from the van and one stayed close to their vehicle while the other, somewhat younger man, with spiked platinum blond hair and bright green eyes and a clean shaven baby-face approached her at her truck.

"Good morning, would you happen to be Dr. Hutton?" he asked her politely. She nodded in affirmation.

"That would be me," she said, "I didn't expect to see you guys here so early!"

"We aim to please," he replied, extending a hand. "I'm Cory Kent and my shy buddy over there is Joe. We wanted to set up the extra security cameras early so we could make certain that they're working right when your guests start to arrive. The boss has also told us to stick around today to make certain everything keeps working. I was wondering where you wanted us to set up the control room."

"Our existing system is based in the basement," Hutton told him with a friendly smile. "Have you and Joe had breakfast yet?"

"I have but I don't know about him, why?" Cory asked.

"Because I have a continental breakfast set up in the main tent behind the house," she answered, "and the two of you are welcome to go help yourself to some coffee and goodies if you like. There will be a blonde woman wearing a red t-shirt. Her name's Linda and she'll show you where in the basement you can start setting up."

Cory smiled pleasantly and nodded, "Well, thank you, Dr. Hutton."

"You're welcome," she told him. Cory headed back to the van to talk with his partner and Hutton met the two deputies approaching her. "Good morning!" she greeted chipperly. "Beautiful day for a BBQ, don't you think?"

"It certainly is—gonna get hot later, though," the older and greyer of the two answered, shaking her proffered hand. "I'm Deputy Hahn and this is my partner Deputy Fleming."

"Nice to meet you," Fleming said politely as he shook her hand as well.

"Thank goodness we'll have the tents set up for shade," Hutton agreed. "So, are you up to having fun today?"

"You bet," Hahn told her, "all in the line of duty that is."

Laughing at that Hutton nodded. "I won't tell your superiors, I promise. So there's you two to shiny like new pennies in the crowd and then there will be another pair of deputies in plainclothes, isn't that right?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Hahn agreed. "They'll be arriving when the first wave of guests do so that they blend in and no one suspects them. Fleming and I will be here until four o'clock and then we'll be relieved by two more uniformed deputies, who will definitely make your acquaintance before the shift change. The plainclothes will also be relieved around the same time but they won't make any obvious approach to introduce themselves for obvious reasons. We understand you've also hired six private security guards for the event as well?"

Hutton nodded. "Yes," she told them, "they should be arriving shortly as well. Why don't you two make your way around to the back of the house where there are tents erected. In the big one is a continental breakfast set up. Go help yourself. I need to get these signs out right now but I'll talk to you again later, okay?"

Fleming nodded, his eyes having lit up at the mention of food. "Thank you, Ma'am, that's kind of you."

Hutton smiled and then returned to her truck, loading the signs into the box before realizing that her hatchet was missing. Then she remembered that House had borrowed it the night before to cut down some logs into fire-starting kindling for his fireplace. She shook her head; a fire in July? It must have been intended to set the mood for his evening with Justin.

She made her way over to the rental house and rang the doorbell, hoping that she wasn't disturbing House and Clee. Just because _she'd_ had to forego morning nookie didn't mean _they_ had to.

She heard the sound of someone approaching the front door from within, the click of the lock and then the door opened. Clee stood there wearing a robe with a towel hung over his neck and honey blond hair damp and tussled. He grinned when he saw it was her.

"Good morning, Sweetie," he said, stepping back to allow her to step inside, which she did.

"Good morning," Hutton answered. "I hope I didn't disturb anything."

"Just shower sex," House grumbled as he emerged from down the hall, wearing only a pair of quickly donned pajama pants, his short salt and chestnut brown hair wet and sticking up in every which direction. "Nothing _important._"

"Oops," she said sheepishly, blushing a little.

"He's just giving you a rough time because he hates mornings," Clee told her. "We were already out of the shower."

"Yeah," House pouted, frowning, "but the toweling off is one of the best parts."

"You'll survive," the surgeon told him, pecking him on the prickly cheek. "Come for the hatchet, Liv?"

"You got it," Hutton acknowledged with a nod.

"It's on the deck," Clee told her, "I'll run and get it for you."

"Thanks," she said gratefully as he walked toward the kitchen. She looked at House and grinned. He looked at her with an expression that said it was too early in the morning for anyone to be so damned cheerful.

"What?" the diagnostician asked irritably as he flopped down onto the sofa. "You look like the cat that ate the canary this morning."

"Nothing," the psychiatrist answered, shrugging. "It's just so nice to see you and Justin together, that's all."

"You should have told us you were coming," House told her drolly, "we could have pulled a chair into the bathroom and given you ringside seats."

"No thanks," she told him, shaking her head. "I just can't get over how sweet you two look together."

"Oh god, don't start!" House groaned. "It's too early in the day to make me nauseous."

"What?" Hutton asked innocently. "I'm not starting _anything_…I'm just glad to see you moving forward in a positive way, both as your friend and your therapist. That's all."

"Thanks, Doc," House quipped sarcastically. "I've doing my homework and everything. Do I get a gold star now?"

"Okay, okay," she said with a sigh and a shake of her head. She then changed the subject. "Are you going to perform in the talent show? I left a spot open just for you if you want to."

"Yes, he is," Clee said as he returned with the tool and handed it to her. "He told me so this morning; a piano number."

Rolling his eyes House smirked. "I would have told you anything to get you into the shower," he told him.

"He's also going to meet my baby today," the surgeon told her happily. House looked a little queasy for a moment and Hutton suspected that the diagnostician was very anxious about that, even if he was trying to hide the fact.

"Wow, meeting the daughter," Hutton said with a grin she knew would get a rise out of House. "Sounds like things are getting serious…"

House rolled his eyes at that. Not quite the response she'd been hoping for but it was better than nothing.

"Maybe," Clee teased and she knew he had to be pretty certain about that to say that with House sitting there.

"Good, whatever works," Hutton said with a grin. "Glad to hear it. Gotta go put up signs—oh, by the way, if you like, Linda and I put out a continental breakfast in the main tent for everyone volunteering with the BBQ so if you're hungry go on down."

"Did somebody say something about food?" House replied, rising from the sofa with an eager look on his face.

"Thanks, Liv," Justin told her with a wink and a smile as she left.

Hutton headed for her truck. She placed the hatchet onto the floor on the passenger's side and then climbed into the driver's seat. As she did she saw one of the security techs, the guy introduced as simply 'Joe', lugging a reel of cable out of the back of the van and carrying it into her house. He seemed familiar to her, like she'd seen his face somewhere before but couldn't exactly place where or when. She shrugged mentally, telling herself it would come to her eventually and putting it into the back corner of her brain. Whenever she did that she almost always came up with the answer; it would suddenly pop into her head out of nowhere at the strangest time. Her subconscious would continue to work on it while she attended to other things that were more immediate.

She started the truck and drove slowly off the property as a van-load of volunteers drove on. She waved at the driver as they passed each other.

**Sunday, July 4, 2010; 8:20 A.M.**

Stephania was returning to the house to use the washroom before getting to work when she saw a strange man entering her home carrying a reel of cable. He was tall—six feet, maybe a little more—and muscular without being brawny and bulky. His hair was a soft, medium shade of brown and he had golden brown eyes. If he hadn't been her mother's age she would have found him interesting. As it was, she still could acknowledge that he was a looker. He wore a white polo with the security company's logo on it and long black shorts that nearly touched his knees. The muscles in his calves were looked sinewy and strong. She sighed. Too bad he was too old.

He struggled to get the basement door open with his hands full. She rushed over and opened the door for him.

"Here you go," she said with a smile. He smiled back appreciatively. Up close she could see a light scar that ran under the line of his left pronounced cheekbone that was almost lost from sight. There was also another scar, about three inches long, on his neck where it met with his shoulder, visible through his collar when he moved a certain way. It was more obvious, larger, and uglier. She wondered what had happened to him to create such a flaw.

"Thanks," he told her. He headed down the stairs and out of curiosity she followed. He went to a folding table where there were monitors and control boards with a bunch of lit and blinking lights that meant nothing to her. There was also a laptop open and on with the company logo as the wallpaper on the screen. The man set the reel down next to the table. Noticing that she had followed him and was watching him, he looked at her shyly and smiled hesitantly.

"Can I do something for you?" he asked with a very light stutter.

Stephania smiled and shook her head. "Nope. I live here and I was just curious as to what you needed all that cable for." She extended a hand to him, "I'm Stephania Hutton."

The security worker stared at her hand cautiously for a moment before slowly extending his hand and shaking it. His hands were calloused and covered in small scars but his touch was light and gentle without being limpy.

"Joe," he said softly, not offering his last name to her. "N-nice to meet you."

She noted how nervous he appeared to be. Most adults approached her confidently if not a little condescendingly as many did when encountering a teenager.

"Nice to meet you, too," she assured him pleasantly. "I didn't see you at breakfast. There's coffee as well as Danishes and muffins, cereal, yogurt and fruit outside in the main tent if you're hungry."

He shrugged bashfully, taking a seat in the folding chair at the table and focusing on the laptop. He entered a username and password, avoiding having to look at her. "Thank you, but I had breakfast."

She moved closer to look over his shoulder as a program came up on the laptop monitor and he began to type in numerical sequences she figured were a type of code of some kind.

"What's the bit encryption you use?" she asked curiously. "Sixty-four or one hundred and twenty-eight?"

"O-One hundred and twenty-eight," he told her without looking up. "W-why?" he seemed more self-conscious than afraid in spite of the stutter.

Being a boy-crazy girl and overtly friendly to begin with, Stephania couldn't help but flirt a little, even if he was quite a bit older than her. She had leaned in to get a better look at the screen to the point where her cheek was almost even with his. Peripherally she could see him glance at her every so often out of the corner of his eye and he swallowed hard at one point. She found it amusing how easy it was to distract members of the male gender with body language and positioning. They were suckers for it. She decided to keep experimenting. She knew she was being a tease but she couldn't help herself. Up close like that she couldn't ignore the fact that he was hot.

"Just curious," she replied, turning her head slightly toward him to look at him. There was a light beading of perspiration on his bow, but it wasn't all that hot in the basement.

"Are you into I.T.?" he asked her, scratching his cheek nervously.

"Not overly," she told him, straightening up. "I take computer courses in school but I'm not really a techie."

"Oh…uh, college courses?" he asked, now turning a little in his chair and looking at her.

"No, I'm still in high school," she told him with a shrug and a smile. She thought she saw disappointment in his eyes.

"Oh, oh, yeah," he nodded and looked back to his laptop.

_That's right_, she told him in her mind, _I'm jail bait. Sorry._

They both jumped when Bonnar yelled from the top of the stairwell.

"Steph, are you down there?"

"Yes," she called back and then sighed. "I'll be right up!"

"Your mother?" Joe asked with a crooked smile.

"No, my mom's best friend," Stephania answered. "Same difference, though. Well, gotta go. Slave by birth, you know. Maybe I'll come by to say hi later?"

Joe looked a little uncertain about that but half-shrugged and nodded anyway.

Stephania took the steep stairs two at a time, finding Bonnar standing at the top with her hands on her hips.

"What were you doing down there?" she asked suspiciously.

"Hiding from you, oh cruel Taskmaster!" Stephania told her with a smirk, wink, and arm around her shoulder. "What's on the agenda now?"

Bonnar looked at her with begrudging affection. "Time to set up the food stations," she told her with a light smack on the teenager's bottom, "smartass. Quit flirting with every XY chromosome carrier that comes onto the yard and get to it, chica."

**Sunday, July 4, 2010; 8:40 A.M.**

House sat at the soundboard playing with the controls as Clee plugged in microphones and monitors on the stage. With each mike he tested it to make certain the power was on and working when they needed it to, also that the volume level was at its best. With House fiddling with the controls like a little boy the process was taking a lot longer than it should have but it was obvious that the longsuffering surgeon was pleased to let the diagnostician to play around so long as when he definitely needed something set right House made certain that it was.

The older man's favorite setting was the echo effect which he kept activating whenever Clee spoke into one of the mikes. Then he'd look up at his lover with a gleeful smile, looking just like a kid in a toy store.

"Testing mike five, testing, testing, test, test, test," Clee said into it, looking at House. "Greg, I can't hear mike five in the center monitor up here. Can you boost it a bit and see if that helps?"

His voice echoed around the yard.

House slid the volume control for that mike up slowly as Clee continued to speak into mike five. He looked up at the surgeon who was shaking his head.

"You're coming through on the house speakers fine," House told him, already getting bored with their volunteered task. Well, actually it was Clee's volunteering that wound him up there but when the younger man looked at him with his pale blue eyes House couldn't say no to him—and Clee knew it.

Although he hadn't actually said the words his message had been received loud and clear by the surgeon and he'd meant it. He had fallen in love with Clee. House was amazed by it himself. He'd been certain he would never love another person again after Wilson had blown him off but he had been wrong, and was never gladder for being proven right in his life. It had happened so quickly, but that wasn't than unusual for him. He could observe things about people and get a feeling for who they were long before ever speaking to them. It had been that way when he first saw Cuddy at Michigan State, Wilson in the bar in New Orleans and Stacey at the doctors versus lawyers paintball event. After that had been Lydia at Mayfield. Aside from Stacy and Wilson he hadn't had the chance to establish anything deeper than he'd had with them. With Clee he'd known right away there was something there that clicked and after their first night he'd been certain that he wanted to see him again and again.

There were aspects about Clee that were definitely held in common with Wilson: they both were caring individuals, both were compassionate, winsome and intelligent. Both were enigmas with so many layers that would keep him busy trying to get through probably for the rest of his life. Both were protective of him, as well. But where Wilson needed to be needed to find his purpose; he could be an emotional vampire feeding off the hurts of other people by nurturing and helping them through crisis. However, Clee didn't glean his sense of purpose and self-worth from others' need for him; he knew who he was, had wrestled with his issues of self-esteem and self-identity and had won. He accepted himself as he was and as far as House could tell wasn't so ashamed of aspects of his life that he lived in denial of them. He found his happiness and purpose from within rather than without and encouraged House to do the same.

Wilson had never gotten there in all of his years of life and House feared that he never would. Not that House had mastered finding happiness and purpose from within, but with Hutton's guidance and Clee's example and encouragement he was slowly getting there. Unlike Wilson, Clee was able to say no to those who asked for his help in expectation of receiving it as if it was their due and not a privilege. He wasn't bothered if people didn't like that. He helped where he could without draining himself to the point where he had none of that care and compassion left for himself. Wilson gave to his patients, his ex-wives, to House, until he was depleted and had nothing left for himself and then became angry and resentful and acted out passive-aggressively. Wilson felt he had to make everybody happy and when he couldn't it tore him up with stress. It had been painful over the years for House to watch his friend willingly make himself a doormat.

He still loved Wilson and always would. He would always worry about him and watch for him in a crowd; but House knew that they could never be more than casual friends now, even if Wilson did come back and apologize for pushing the diagnostician away. It made House sad in a nostalgic sort of way, losing something that had meant so much to him for so long; but what he had right now was right and good and healthy and he was happy with Justin Clee, genuinely happy. Now that he had found what he'd been yearning for, there was no way he was going to give it up. He watched as his lover checked the connection of the various different wires to make certain that nothing was loose and causing the problem. Every time Clee bent over to pick up a cord House was sure to enjoy the view of his ass in those slim-fitting tan walking shorts he wore. He also enjoyed the way the muscles in his lean, tanned arms and legs flexed and rippled as he worked. House was horny as hell and needed some kind of distraction or Clee was going to get jumped very soon, the fact that they were in a public place be damned!

"Quit salivating," Bonnar told him as she and Stephania passed the stage for the umpteenth time that morning carrying plastic cups, glasses, plates and utensils as well as bag after bag of napkins to the main tent of which the stage was a part. He heard the teenager giggle at that.

"Hey, Steph," House said to her, signaling her to ditch the OB/GYN and come over to the control board. She looked at him quizzically and approached him while carrying yet another bag of paper plates.

"Yeah, what?" she asked.

"I'm bored."

"Aw,_ Muffin_!" she said with mock-sympathy, "You poor baby! That's rough!"

"Shut up and pull up a chair," he ordered.

"I can't," she protested, shaking her head. "Auntie Linda is cracking the whip."

"Sounds kinky," House quipped without skipping a beat. "I thought Gary was on the road. Sit."

Stephania sighed, grabbed a nearby folding chair and set it next to the diagnostician's. She looked to see if Linda was anywhere where she could see her and then sat down.

"Greg, check the volume level on mike two!" Justin called from the stage. "Hey Steph! Is Romeo here yet? Need to have a chat with the boy."

The teenager turned her head and glared at House, who had cringed slightly when Clee had mentioned it. He'd forgotten to tell him that the girl had sworn him to silence.

"Discreet, Justin," House called back sarcastically, "real discreet."

"Dr. House, you weren't supposed to say anything to anybody!" she told him, vexed. "Note to self: don't ask _you_ to keep a secret!"

Clee had jumped down from the stage and was striding smoothly towards them.

"Justin isn't just anybody," House defended. "He's _Uncle_ Justin, remember? Besides, I need someone with two good legs to follow you two around and make certain that he keeps his paws off of you."

"No," she told him firmly, "you don't. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Who was the idiot who told you that?" the diagnostician asked her. "You're five-seven and what?—one hundred and twenty pounds? How big is _he_?"

One hundred and twenty pounds?' Stephania said in outrage. "Try one hundred and five! How on earth do _I_ look one-twenty?"

"True" House agreed seriously. "You _are_ underweight and kinda bony. Answer me. How big?"

He's something like six-feet, one hundred and eighty pounds. Not fat, muscular. I guess he plays football during the school year," she answered, still glowering at him.

Clee came to stand next to House, placing a hand on his shoulder. House was temporarily distracted by that; the younger man was always touching him when he was close enough to do so. In public it was always discreet but he still did it. It was like he couldn't keep his hands off of the older man. House had never appreciated being casually touched like that before but he'd grown to actually long for it after meeting the surgeon. House wondered if his lover had any idea what effect he had on him.

"He could overwhelm you in seconds if he wanted to," Clee told her before House could. "From what Greg told me I wouldn't trust the little puke any further than you can throw him. Tell you what—how about I throw him for you?" His eyebrows wagged in evil glee.

Stephania included him in her frustrated glare but even that lacked conviction. There was the tangible threat of a smile breaking out on her lips in spite of her anger.

"One dad died," she muttered as she rose from the chair, "and I ended up with four to replace him."

"Who's number four?" House asked as she walked away in a hurry.

"Xander," Clee informed him with a smirk.

"Just don't embarrass me today!" Stephania called back over her shoulder worryingly.

"But sweetheart," Clee shouted back playfully, "that's what dads do best!"

House repressed a smile when Clee leaned in to kiss him. He made certain the contact lingered as long as possible before muttering, "I don't act like her dad."

"Yeah," Clee told him, stroking the older man's hair briefly, "you do." He headed back to finish his work on the stage. House was uncertain about how he felt about that.

**Sunday, July 4, 2010; 10:01 A.M.**

Just before ten, people began to arrive at the Hutton acreage. David and two of his friends were working parking, directing drivers to the scrub patch at the end of the driveway loop and lining them up neatly in rows, being careful not to double park anyone or block a vehicle off from leaving if and when it was necessary. He was good at it, having watched his older cousin do it two years in a row. Most people brought their own lawn chairs, sun umbrellas or picnic blankets and totes filled with sun care products, hats, sunglasses, jackets and changes of clothing in case the weather changed suddenly and for the evening, and miscellaneous sundry items they would need throughout the day. It wasn't apparent which of the early arrivers were actually the plainclothes deputies since there were always new faces each year; but the uniformed deputies and security guards Hutton had hired were working the gate and milling about the growing number of guests, visiting pleasantly in a relaxed manner that made people feel at ease knowing they were there rather than intimidating them and making them question if it had been a wise idea to come in the first place.

Volunteers were at their positions; the hired staff was at work including the caterers who had arrived around nine-forty-five. Already the temperature outside was becoming hot and the air was humid. The weather forecast had predicted that the day would be hot and sunny and the evening warm and dry and it certainly seemed like it was going to be proven true. House had returned to his place to rest and stay cool until the BBQ was in full gear. His leg had been iffy and he'd wanted to rest it until later so that he could actually attend the party when things were actually happening. It more than bothered House that he was as easily incapacitated as he was; however, the ugly truth was that years of physical and psychic pain, drug abuse, heavy drinking and age were catching up to him.

Clee had driven home to gather everything he'd need for the talent show later, but not before setting House up in the living room with his leg up on an ottoman, a heating pad wrapped around it, prescription-strength ibuprofen and water within arm's reach, TV remote control in hand and a passionate kiss to hold him until the surgeon returned. House had put up his normal objection to being treated like an invalid and had been given warning glares and a lecture about accepting loving acts of kindness from Clee before he had left.

Hutton fluttered around visiting, conducting, assisting and fretting occasionally, too; most of that had been put to an end by Anderson, who was determined that she was going to enjoy herself this year and trust those to whom she had delegated authority to do their jobs. He admitted to being selfish, wanting more of her time for himself but she didn't seem to mind his self-interest all that much. His eyes, like those of several others present, were on the lookout for the stalker based on the descriptions Hutton and Stephania had provided. There was no way he was going to allow Hutton and her family out of his sight and the pediatrician knew that he wouldn't be able to relax completely until the last guest had gone home at the end of the day.

If Hutton was the boss, Bonnar was her foreman, moving from area to area to make certain that everybody had what they needed to work efficiently and that all was running like clockwork. With Gary on the road she wasn't feeling all that much like celebrating and her body was betraying her more than she was willing to admit to anyone, especially Hutton. She knew that one symptom of her MS was depression; she took a mild antidepressant daily to counteract it and usually it worked, but when she was tired, in pain or lonely she had depressive episodes that she had learned she had to just slog her way through until things changed. Socializing wasn't really of interest for her now so keeping everything functioning like grease in the gears was more her speed. There was also the free-floating myalgias and painful paresthesias in her extremities she had to deal with, and her pain medications only partially helped.

The OB/ Gyn was also worried about the safety of her second family; she and Hutton were more like sisters than friends, both in positive and negative ways. She loved Hutton and she loved the psychiatrist's children as much as she did her own. She felt helpless to protect them from this invisible menace; she was a mother bear chained to a tree watching the humans getting too close to her cubs and being unable to do much, if anything, about it. She knew that Hutton was busy and distracted and wouldn't be able to keep as close an eye on her kids as she would like, so Bonnar had decided already that when she was out and about doing her thing she would be keeping watch over Stephania and David as much as she was able to as well.

Stephania's friend had arrived and they were busy putting name tags on all of the children while their parents signed consent forms allowing the teens to watch the children and engage them in games and other activities that were age appropriate and carefully supervised throughout the day. Every so often Stephania would look around the growing numbers present, looking for Jeremy. He'd said that he was coming but hadn't confirmed that with her or said when he'd be arriving. She awaited his arrival with both excitement and dread. She really did like him; he was tall, dark and handsome—not to mention smart. Having him pressure her for sex had put her off, but she had to admit she'd been very tempted and wasn't certain that he had been behaving all that unreasonably no matter what the adults in her life said.

Sure, they had been young and hormonal and curious once too, blah, blah, blah. However things in the world had changed since they were her age. Teenagers were much more mature and sophisticated than they had been back in the late sixties and seventies, so there was no way they could fully understand the dynamics between males and females of her generation. She would definitely keep their advice in mind, but she was going to make her own decisions based on what she knew as well.

When Xander Roth, his wife Shirley, his daughter Renate and son Jason arrived Hutton and Anderson went to greet them. After the normal hellos and hugs between Hutton and the Roth family Renate went off to find Stephania while the adults walked toward the main tent, talking. Shirley, seeing friends of hers that she hadn't seen in years, excused herself to say hello. That left the three colleagues alone at a table, drinking lemonade and talking.

"Good news," Roth told Hutton and Anderson almost right away. "Is Dr. House anywhere around? I'd like to tell him at the same time."

"I believe he's resting his leg right now," Anderson answered, "but he'll be here for lunch and the talent show at very least. We could call him or head over to his place—?"

"No, no, let him rest," Roth told them. "I'll be able to tell him soon enough. I heard from my friend that the state licensing board has called a last minute meeting for Tuesday to look over his application for approval of his pain management protocol. They'll hear the testimony and read the documentation and then render their decision at their normal meeting on Thursday of this next week."

Hutton nearly squealed in excitement at the news, she was so happy for the diagnostician. She of all people knew how important this was to him, to finally have proper pain control and management after a decade or more of chronic, sometimes debilitating pain. She knew just how positive that would be for his mental health, helping to relieve some of the depression that came as a result of constant pain as well as the limitations to his career and lifestyle. He would still have his disability to deal with, but at least the pain of it would be vastly decreased if not all but eliminated. Cognitive behavior therapy, extra strength ibuprofen and a heating pad or hot baths were simply not enough.

"That's so wonderful!" she told the chief administrator with an ear to ear grin. I can't wait to see House's and Justin's reactions to the news."

"Justin? As in Justin Clee?" Roth asked, raising a curious eyebrow.

"Yes," Anderson replied. "Don't tell me you haven't heard the hospital gossip? They're seeing each other."

"According to Justin it's pretty serious between them," Hutton added, "but you didn't hear that from me because I don't gossip."

"Since when?" Anderson laughed.

"What about your stalker?" Roth asked the psychiatrist.

Hutton looked at him in surprise. "I don't recall telling you about that. Did I?"

"Uh, is it too late to plead the fifth?" Roth responded.

Hutton looked at Anderson. "Did you tell Xander? I don't mind but I thought I'd done a good job of keeping it quiet around the hospital."

"Not me," Anderson said, shaking his head and shrugging.

"Well, whatever,' Hutton said, shrugging as well. "Um, I take it you know about the first encounter I had with him?"

"It was at a marketplace or something, wasn't it?" her boss asked her. The psychiatrist nodded in confirmation.

"Yes," she answered. "Well, a few nights ago he showed up again here on the acreage when Gage and I were at the hospital with House and Stephania and David were home alone." She told him the entire story; Roth listened with a deepening frown on his face as he did. When she was through he sighed loudly.

"Yet you decided to throw this BBQ anyway," Roth said, looking at her with a mixture of incredulity and admiration. "You're one ballsy woman, Liv."

"I'll take that as a compliment, I think," she said with an uncertain smile. The two men with her laughed.

"It was intended that way," Xander assured her, "but promise me this: at the first sign of danger you take cover and let the professionals you have here take over. Okay?"

Hutton smiled but didn't promise anything. She looked around at the amassing guests and the smile faded. _Ballsy?_ she thought to herself. _If I'm so ballsy why am I scared to death and want to gather up my kids, run to the panic room and hide until this entire day is over?_

**A/N 2: Sorry about the long wait for the update. RL is throwing me some curve balls but I'll update as frequently as I can. I don't believe in abandoning fics so I will finish Resurrection. I promise! Again, thank you to everyone who has been writing and thanks for the reviews, too. I do read them all and try to respond to as many as I can. If I don't respond to your review, it's not personal and I really do appreciate them all!**

**I've received requests to write a multi-chaptered fic focusing on Wilson as the main character. I'm not opposed to the idea, though I do find it harder to relate to Wilson than I do House. However, I cannot promise to write one until after I've completed Resurrection and Held Hostage since they are my priority. Thanks!**


	48. Chapter 48 Part 3 Ch 14

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author. **Warning: One use of offensive terminology pertaining to homosexuality.** Used in the context of an ignoramus showing how incredibly stupid he is.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **8661

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Fourteen: Sunday, July 4, 2010; 11:47 A.M.**

"Let's go for a smoke break," Cory said to his apprentice, leaning back in his chair in front of the laptop and stretching out his arms and back.

Joe nodded in agreement and followed his partner upstairs and outside. The name Joe came from his middle name, Joseph, which he let everyone at the halfway house believe was the name he usually went by. He only allowed people he trusted to call him Danny, and there weren't very many of them. Standing on the west side of the house watching Stephania, Renate and Nicola playing with the kids about fifty feet away they stood puffing away. Joe/Danny had always liked kids. He remembered volunteering at the public day camps at neighborhood playgrounds near his home when he was Stephania's age. Of course, those were the days _before_ it had happened. They were the last few blessed summer days before he'd begun to retreat into his own little world where nothing outside of it made any sense to him anymore. He remembered his brothers trying to reach out to him, especially Jimmy, but the more they had tried the further he had retreated.

The hallucinations had arrived the day of his seventeenth birthday. They had manifested as voices that told him that he had been abducted by the CIA for secret mind control experiments including the implantation of microchips in his brain meant to control him. The voices were those of the Resistance trying to save him from becoming completely taken over by the Powers That Be who were experimenting on him; they were transmitting messages to victims like him by tapping into the transmission codes in the microchips and overriding them with their own transmissions. They explained that that was why none of his family members could hear them. After a while they had begun to tell him that the members of his family were agents of the CIA assigned to keep an eye on him and make certain that he submitted to the will of The Powers in charge.

Danny hadn't wanted to believe that Jimmy was one of Them because his older brother had always been his best friend, had always looked after him from the time they were small kids and their mother was having her 'headaches' that kept her incapacitated most of the time (as he and Jimmy had grown older they began to realize that their mother's headaches were really the times she was stoned on Valium and couldn't be bothered with her family) and their dad, a sales representative for a medical supply company, was on the road. He had loved Jimmy more than anyone else in his family and he had known how much his big brother had tried to help him when he'd gotten sick. Eventually, however, the Resistance had managed to convince him that Jimmy was just as much a danger as the rest.

He'd been told that The Powers used TV antennas on people's houses to relay their control commands to the microchips and the Resistance hadn't found a way of blocking that yet. Consequently he'd been told to avoid going outside his house where the antennae would have better access to his mind. Danny had holed up in his bedroom, going so far as to barricade the window and doors on more than one occasion. He remembered how Jimmy had pleaded with him for hours one night to come out and eat. Danny had been holed up for three days that time, refusing to come out to eat their poisoned food and water. He had survived on a six pack of Coca-Cola and a box of Oreos that he'd bought himself just before hiding from the world. His brother had stopped pleading eventually and had sobbed for a long time before falling asleep outside Danny's bedroom door with a cold plate of beef stew he'd made and brought up for him.

The day after that, their father had come home to find his wife higher than a kite and his youngest son holed up in a fit of paranoia. David, the oldest son, had taken off for a few days to hang out with some of his dope-using friends; it all had been left up to Jimmy to tell his father about Danny and mother after having spent the week taking care of both. The entirety of that mayhem had been on top of going to school, doing his homework, and trying to keep his grades up so he could obtain advanced placement in his science courses in college the next year. Some nights Jimmy had had to survive on three hours sleep because he'd been forced to do his studying on into the wee hours of the morning, the only time he'd had with everything else to deal with.

His father had called the family doctor who had suggested he call for the fire department and an ambulance to take Danny to the hospital for assessment. Danny had been ready for them and on the direction of the Resistance had tried to kill himself with a pair of scissors rather than be taken by the Powers and be completely brainwashed by Them.

Jimmy had been present when the fire department had broken down the bedroom door and barricade to get to Danny, only to find him barely alive in a pool of his own blood on the floor. The older brother had been so upset about that that he'd taken ill for the rest of the week, unable to sleep or keep both water and food down. Danny had been taken to the ER and then trauma surgery to repair the damage he'd done to himself. Once he'd been stable enough the Powers had had him moved to the psychiatric ward and pumped him full of all kind of poisons. The last message he'd received from the Resistance had been that the poisons would destroy Danny's ability to hear them anymore and they had been right. It would be a long time before he heard from them again.

As the antipsychotics had begun to work, Danny's mind had cleared enough to know and understand he was sick and that the Resistance and The Powers weren't real but in fact hallucinations and delusions. He had been terrified to learn that he had a disease with a horrible name like schizophrenia. His doctor had told him, Dad, David and Jimmy that the disease ran in families. His father had told the doctor that Danny's mother's great-grandmother, grandfather, and uncle had been diagnosed with mental illnesses that included schizophrenia, and manic-depression. The boys hadn't been told that their mother was actually an undiagnosed Bipolar for another fifteen years. The doctor said that Danny had developed Schizophrenia as part of that family line as well as environmental factors at home and school. David and Jimmy had been at risk too and had been watched carefully for years for any signs of mental illness but neither of them had become afflicted.

The doctor had told Danny and his family that as long as he took his medicine everyday as prescribed and saw a psychiatrist regularly he could go home, but that the medications he was on had nasty side-effects that could make it impossible for him to continue his education in a classroom setting or work at some jobs requiring physical dexterity or skill. So with a promise to obey the doctor's directions to the letter Danny had gone home.

Jimmy had taken over making certain that Danny took his medication faithfully and got to his therapy appointments. Everything had gone back to normal, or as normal as they had been minus the fact that Danny had to get his schooling by correspondence and usually needed help from Jimmy to get it done. David moved out soon after, his father still had had to go out on the road for days at a time, and his mother had gone to a 'special hospital' for treatment of her own. Still, Jimmy had managed, somehow, out of sheer necessity and had graduated at the top of his class. Danny had gone with their father to watch Jimmy's convocation and hear his valedictory speech. He'd been so proud of his big brother and Jimmy had acted around his teachers and friends like he was just as proud of Danny.

Danny's relapse had occurred three months after Jimmy had gone off to college to take his pre-med courses at McGill University in Montreal, Canada. His brother had been willing to hold off from going to college for a year to take care of Danny until their mother was well enough to take over but their father would hear nothing of it, hiring a nurse to come in twice a week to check on Danny to make sure he was taking his meds and eating properly. Jimmy called home as often as he could afford to but being on a student's budget that hadn't been often enough for either of their likings. During exam time, Jimmy had been too busy to write, the nurse had gotten sick with the 'Egyptian Flu' and no replacement had ever been found for her. His mother relapsed two days after she'd been discharged from hospital and had been sent back. Eventually she recovered and never relapsed again, but not before it was too late for her youngest boy. As soon as Danny had run out of his pills he hadn't been able to get back to see the doctor and before long madness had claimed him again. For a second time he'd been committed to a hospital but after the second day had managed to sneak past a negligent worker and had escaped.

After that he'd lost track of all of his family and had ended up on the streets as one of those raving homeless people he and Jimmy had made fun of when they were kids. Lost in his delusions and hallucinations, taking hard drugs and booze to deal with the pain he felt, Danny lost years of his life. During that time his family had searched for him but had never found him and had eventually given up. David had finished his law degree, Jimmy had completed med school at Columbia and had married his sweetheart , Samantha, who he'd met there and his father had retired. His parents had moved away to a warmer clime. It wasn't for another decade give or take a few years before he'd been arrested for a petty offence, hospitalized and reunited with Jimmy. He'd still been pretty messed up at the time, but seeing Jimmy again had been the happiest he'd been in a long time. He'd learned that Jimmy had never really given up on him and had been searching the streets for him for years. For a while he'd kept in contact with his brother but eventually Danny had been released, had stopped taking his meds again and before long had been back on the streets until nearly a year ago. Instead of being dumped out of the hospital this last time, however, he'd enrolled in a program that helped him reintegrate with society while still living in a group home setting where someone made certain that he was taking his meds and keeping up with therapy. He'd told everyone to call him Joe and plodded along taking life one day at a time.

So there he was taking a long drag off of the piece of shit cigarette he'd bummed off of Cory, watching the pretty girl he'd met earlier. Unlike Cory, however, Joe had no interest in leering and talking dirty about her; she was really only a child yet. Of course, living on the streets he'd seen many girls younger than her selling their bodies to keep themselves from having their pimps beat the shit out of them, to score some dope to feed their addictions, or to make the money to take care of their unplanned children. Joe was taken with Stephania because of her friendliness and ability to see past his shyness; not out of some lustful fantasy of fucking her; that was just sick.

When Cory said something particularly obscene about her Joe threw his cigarette down into the dirt in disgust and put it out under his shoe.

"Shut up Cory. You're a fucking pervert," he told the other man and then stormed back into the house just to get away from him and calm down.

**(~*~)**

Using a megaphone Hutton announced that lunch was being served buffet style in the main tent in ten minutes. She then went to the flag pole set up on the stage as people gathered from around the acreage to grab a table. She looked out across the two hundred or so guests already present and she knew that more would be arriving throughout the afternoon. There were so many familiar faces but mixed among them were unfamiliar ones as well. Those she recognized were people she'd known for years and those she'd just gotten to know and call friends. It gave her a feeling of joy knowing that in the midst of trouble there were so many good, decent people in her life. She knew just how lucky she was. As a psychiatrist she had heard many a heart-rending story of loneliness, rejection and loss. Life could throw curve balls at her, and frequently did, but in those times all she had to do was remember faces like those before her and her strength was renewed.

"Ladies and gentlemen and those of you who know better, welcome once again to my home to celebrate the fourth of July with my family and me," she said into one of the microphones. "For those of you new to our celebration, my name is Olivia Hutton and I welcome you all. It's good to get together to celebrate our great nation and the freedoms we all enjoy everyday thanks to the Founding Fathers and of course all of the unsung women who were their real strength, right ladies?"

There was laughter, mostly from the women but a few men laughed as well.

She continued once the laughter waned. "With our rights and freedoms guaranteed in the Constitution comes the responsibility to defend them against those, foreign and domestic, who would try to subvert and destroy them. As citizens and residents of the United States, it's our duty to remain vigilant of those who would try to turn this country in a direction away from the tenets of the Constitution. We need to remember those right now serving in the armed forces abroad and at home as well as their families and appreciate the sacrifice they are making to protect this country and promote peace worldwide. Now I know that you all smell the food as well as I do and are chomping at the bit so if Stephania will come up here now, we'll sing the national anthem. Please stand."

Stephania had been ready and was quickly at her place behind the piano. She played perfectly as the crowd sang _The Star-Spangled Banner_ (Stephania had only been practicing the piece for months beforehand). Men had removed their hats and caps, children either tried to sing or whine because they were hungry or bored. When the anthem was finished Hutton quickly gave them directions for an orderly line-up for the food, starting with which tables went in which order and where the various stations were: food, condiment, beverage and dessert. There were two line-ups available and those with small children or dietary needs could go first.

She went down to the round table where Anderson sat with his brother Bryce, their widowed mother Claris, House, Clee, the Roth's minus their kids and Linda were seated. Hutton's and the Roth's kids were sitting with other friends and guests their age elsewhere but the psychiatrist had made certain that she knew exactly where they were before sitting down with the others to wait for their turn to line up.

"It's lucky for you that we're one of the first tables," House told her with a smirk, "or else I would have pushed my way to the head of the line. I'm starving."

"You're always starving," Clee commented with a smile. "You never stop eating."

"I'm a grazer," House informed him.

"Only between meals," Clee said and others at the table laughed at that. House feigned being annoyed but everyone at the table could see right through it, including the Anderson boys' mother.

"House, I don't think you've met my mother," Anderson told the diagnostician, the latter of whom was sitting next to the senior lady in question, "Claris Anderson. Mom, this is Dr. Gregory House, one of St. Luke's newest acquisitions and a friend of mine."

Hutton noticed the way House's lips turned upward for a microsecond at Anderson's use of the word friend. She couldn't help but smile at that. She knew this whole friendship thing was still new and novel to House and was pleased that he had begun to accept the concept and to trust people enough for that to be a possibility.

"So you're the one responsible," House said sarcastically to Claris, with smiling eyes.

"Only for their good qualities," Claris answered back with attitude. "The rest is their father's fault, God bless his stubborn soul."

"Dad died a year and a half ago and she's been spying every good lookin' man in the place," Bryce said with a wink, only to have his mother turn to him.

"You stop that now!"

"It's true, Mom," Anderson told her, grinning. "She's been especially watching you, House."

"Hush, now, lippy boy!"

"Sorry, Claris," House said with a smirk, "I'm taken."

"Good thing you remembered that," Clee told him good-naturedly.

Claris sighed at that. "Well, it's certainly hard to find a good man these days."

"Tell me about it," Clee responded with a wink at her, "that's why I'm holding onto mine."

"Yes, but does he have a friend?" she asked, sparking more laughter. Hutton looked up to say something when she saw Dr. Chase approaching with a beautiful young woman she was unfamiliar with. They were holding hands discreetly.

"May we join you?" Chase asked, glancing at the empty seats at the table that sat twelve.

"Sorry, no wombats allowed at the table," House quipped quickly. Hutton could see Clee nudge him _under_ the table. The psychiatrist spoke up.

"Of course, Robert. Ignore House. He's hungry."

"I've worked with him long enough to know what that means," Chase responded with a nod. He held the chair for Thirteen who flashed him a quizzical eyebrow and amused smile at the gesture. "Have you met Remy yet?"

"No, I don't believe we have," Hutton answered with a smile for her. "I'm Dr. Olivia Hutton."

"Dr. Remy Hadley," was the response from the young woman. "I work for House."

"My condolences," Bonnar said sarcastically, earning the blue-eyed glare she'd been looking for. "I'm Dr. Linda Bonnar; I catch babies for a living."

"Nice to meet you," Thirteen replied. Hutton made certain everyone had been introduced.

"We've already met," Clee told their host. "She's a lousy bowler."

"Not as bad as you," she retorted, still smiling. "And I have better taste in men."

Chase blushed slightly and House repeated her words back to her mockingly. Clee shrugged.

"I beg to differ." To punctuate his point he leaned in and pressed a kiss to House's temple. The diagnostician rolled his eyes at the gesture.

"Oh, it appears to be our turn to line up," Hutton announced. "Everybody watch out for House as he makes a bee-line for the food."

"Damned straight," was his response to that. They all headed for the buffet line. As Hutton found her way through the tables with Anderson her eye fell on the blond-haired security technician named Cory standing at the table of teenagers, talking to Stephania. There was another dark-haired boy build solidly like a linebacker sitting next to her glaring with open hostility at him. Hutton found it unusual; Cory was at least thirty and the oldest person at Stephania's table appeared to be the fellow beside her. She once again got a shiver; the technician gave her the creeps but she didn't know why. His partner wasn't anywhere to be seen, probably holding the fort back at the house. She still hadn't been able to recall why he had looked so familiar.

"Who's that sitting next to Steph?" Hutton asked Anderson only to receive a shrug from him.

Clee overheard her and glanced over to take a look for himself. His eyes narrowed suspiciously which only made Hutton even more uneasy. The surgeon turned back to her.

"I think that's Steph's boyfriend, Jeremy, Liv. You've never met him?"

Hutton shook her head, frowning. "I've heard his name once or twice but I didn't know they were even seeing each other. Are you certain about that?"

House looked up from heaping baked beans onto his plate to look at the object of their attention. "That's Jeremy?" he asked, beginning to scowl. "I won't make a scene now. I'll wait until I can get him alone so there are no witnesses."

"What?" Hutton asked, looking at him with concern. "What did you mean by that, House?"

Clee sighed and leaned in closer to her so he could keep his voice down. "Stephania told Greg that Jeremy has been, shall we say, less than a gentleman. Don't worry about it, Liv. Between Greg and I we'll make certain he's put in his place."

"Was wasn't I told about this sooner?"

House gave Clee a glare before telling her, "She asked me to keep it quiet but some people don't know how to keep a secret—Justin. She knew you'd worry and probably overreact so she felt safer telling me. If I'd felt she was in danger I would have told you right away. He's a hormonal jerk who simply needs to be educated about the fact that he'll be walking funny for a long time if he pressures her in any way. Don't be angry at her, Hutton."

"I'm not," the psychiatrist responded, obviously annoyed if not angry. "I'm angry with you and Justin for not telling me right away."

"Sweetie," Clee told her, "she's at the age where she needs someone who's an adult to talk to who _isn't_ her mother. Didn't you go through that phase when you were her age? I know I did, except in my case I couldn't talk to my dad because he would have cut my balls off if I'd tried to talk to him about my _boyfriend_ issues, if you get my drift. Please believe us, if she was in danger you'd know right away."

Hutton exhaled slowly. She knew they were right; she had gone through a period of her life where the last person she would have talked to about anything was her mother, but she'd thought that had been due to the strained relationship they'd always had. She'd hoped it would be different between her and Stephania but apparently it wasn't. It disappointed her to say the least.

"Who the hell is that other guy—the blond wannabe hitting on her in front of lover-boy?" House mused aloud. "The guy looks like a pedophile."

Hutton had the same feeling. "He's one of the security techs who put up the extra cameras around the acreage for the BBQ. He came with another man who must be waiting in the basement for that guy to return so he come out and get a bite to eat as well."

As she was talking Jeremy suddenly rose to his feet, the poster boy for hostility. He and Cory were facing off and at any moment it looked like fists could start flying. Hutton could hear her daughter trying to defuse the situation with no success. She sighed. It was time to stop this fight before it started.

**(~*~)**

As soon as Jeremy stood up Clee made his move, setting his plate down on the buffet table and striding towards them; he was followed by Anderson but it was Roth who got there first. He was at least a head taller than either Cory or Jeremy and broad, just as imposing as he'd been the first day House had met him even though he'd been dressed immaculately in suit and tie and today he wore a green polo and tan shorts. The man was solid muscle. House set his plate down next to Clee's and then limped within earshot. He felt useless with his bad leg, although he could swing a mean cane if necessary.

Hutton was making her way over when Claris lightly grabbed her wrist and shook her head. House could hear her tell the psychiatrist, "Honey, this is a job for the men and she's got plenty of them to take care of her. Let them."

She was about to protest but then stopped and closed her mouth and nodded. The old woman was right.

"Gentlemen," Roth said in his deep, authoritative voice, looking back and forth between Jeremy and Cory, "this is neither the time nor place. Let's just take this elsewhere, shall we?"

The administrator wasn't requesting and neither of the two men facing off was willing to argue. House watched as Roth put a giant hand on a shoulder of each and 'led' them out of the tent. Clee and Anderson followed. Stephania, red-faced and livid, got up to follow but House cut her off with his cane and then himself.

"Please move, Dr. House," she said, barely restraining her anger. "This is my business and I wish the rest of you would just butt out!"

"It became our business the moment they got up to knock heads." The diagnostician leveled a stern look at her. "What happened?"

Stephania crossed her arms, refusing to answer. Her mother came up beside her.

"Answer him, Steph," she told her daughter sternly.

Seeing that she was outnumbered the fifteen-year-old grudgingly did as she was told. "That security dude came over and started to talk to me about the horses. Apparently he loves them but since moving to Philadelphia he hasn't had a chance to ride. Jeremy thought he was getting too friendly with me and told him to on. When the other guy ignored him Jeremy got up to _make_ him leave me alone. I tried to tell both of them to stop acting like idiots but neither of them was listening to me. What are Uncle Xander and the rest of them going to do? Are they going to _totally_ humiliate me in front of Jeremy?"

"Duh," House told her sarcastically. "Sit down and finish eating."

Hutton led her daughter back to her table and friends. House wasn't satisfied to wait with the chicks to learn what happened after all of the excitement was over. He limped quickly after Roth, Clee and Anderson. They had gone around to the front of the house in the driveway to 'discuss' the matter. When he reached Clee's side he noticed that Hutton had followed and rolled his eyes in disgust.

"He was hitting on Steph," Jeremy told Roth, not even trying to hide his outrage. "He's a fucking old dude trying to pick up a girl who's underage. I told him to back off and he didn't. So I decided it was up to me to make him."

"Look," Cory replied disdainfully. "I don't know what he's talking about. Steph and I were just talking, that's all. I wasn't hitting on her—I mean, she's just a kid! I noticed the stables and someone told me that the horses belonged to her so we were talking about that. I grew up on a ranch in Montana and my father trained horses, so we have a common interest. He got all jealous and got in my face. He's the one who told her to shut her mouth when she was trying to tell him to cool down. Look, do you think I'd risk my job like that over a little girl? I'm not a pervert. He was trying to get his hands down her pants when I got to her table."

House spoke up. "Gee, where have I heard that before? Oh, I know—from Stephania just a few moments ago."

"Man, you don't know what you're talking about! You weren't even there!"

"No," Clee responded calmly, "but Stephania was. If she said you were looking for a fight that's all I need to hear."

"Fuck you, you fag!" Jeremy sneered in contempt. House immediate moved but Clee grabbed his forearm and shook his head no.

"That little shit isn't worth it," the surgeon whispered. "He's just an ignorant asshole."

"That's enough of that kind of language, young man!" Roth told him severely. "Nobody wants to hear your filthy mouth."

"I don't care," House growled into Clee's ear, but he didn't fight his lover's hold on his arm. He wanted to tear the teen one up one side and down the other. "Nobody talks to you like that!"

"Actually a lot of people do. I don't let it bother me and neither should you."

That was when Hutton stepped in. "Mr. Kent, I think you should get back to work now."

He nodded, still casting angry glances in Jeremy's direction. "Of course," he said and then headed towards the house without another word. The psychiatrist then turned to the teenager.

"I want you to leave my property, now."

Jeremy looked at Hutton disdainfully and then sneered. "No way, Stephania invited me. I drove all the way from the city to get here."

"And you're going to drive all the way back home now," Roth informed him, glaring down his nose at him. "So go get into your car and drive away."

"And if I don't?"

Hutton pushed past Roth and got up into the young man's face. She was shorter and smaller in build but the woman carried a lot of gravity for someone her size.

"Then I'll signal that deputy over there," she nodded her chin in the direction of one of the uniformed officers about twenty yards away, "and have you arrested for trespassing. Leave or go to jail—your choice. You've got two seconds to make it. One…"

"Stephania said you were a bitch," Jeremy spat before wheeling around and stalking to the parking area. Anderson caught up to him to ensure that he actually left the property. House wondered if the pediatrician should be left alone with the little creep after that remark to his girlfriend. Then again, if anything should accidentally happen it might not be such a bad thing.

"Aw," House whined, "I didn't even get a chance to beat him senseless. No fair!"

"Better luck next time," Roth told him with a smirk and returned to the main tent with Hutton. House turned to follow them when Clee stopped him and pulled him into a kiss. It wasn't as passionate as House would have liked but there were children wandering around the yard. An idea struck him and he grinned against the younger man's mouth.

"What?" Clee asked, smirking.

"What do you say you and I go for a nature walk and get lost for a little while?" House suggested.

"I thought you were hungry?"

The diagnostician shrugged, squeezing one of his lover's gluteals. "There's hungry, and then there's _hungry_."

"People will notice when we don't go back into the tent," Clee pointed out, but his eyes were already burning with desire.

"So what? Let them go on their own…walks." House took the surgeon's lower lip into his mouth and bit it hard so that it bled before sucking on it and licking it to soothe the pain. Clee's breath caught in his throat and he breathed heavily.

"Lead the way, Babe."

**Sunday, July 4, 2010; 12:58 P.M.**

Stephania glared at her mother when she and Roth returned to the main tent. Most of those present were enjoying their desserts including her friends at the table, but she was too angry to eat. The most annoying thing was that she didn't who she was most angry with.

Jeremy had been acting like an idiot from the moment he'd arrived but that was fairly normal; he was very good-looking, athletic and intelligent and with that came a certain amount of arrogance. He'd been asking her if she wanted to 'show him the stable' so they could be alone. Earlier she'd been seriously considering taking him up on his offer but as soon as she'd seen him that certainly had flown the coop. Luckily for her lunch had been announced so she'd been able to avoid the issue for a while.

Then Cory had come over and flirted with her. There was no other word for it. Nothing had been overtly done or said and he really had seemed interested in talking about horses, which was one of her favorite subjects as well. Stephania had shrugged it off as the man being a natural flirt, like she was, and it meant nothing but Jeremy hadn't been as good with it as she'd been. Her anger toward both of them happened when Jeremy stood and asked him if he wanted to take it outside and Cory had agreed. She'd felt like a piece of meat two dogs were about to fight over. Her futile attempts to defuse the situation had only added to her disgust. However, the worst had been when Roth, Clee, and Anderson had butt in and embarrassed her like they had. She knew that they all cared about her very much and that the last thing that was needed at the BBQ was a brawl but…but it had made her feel like a little girl who was too helpless to take care of herself and the situations she found herself in.

She saw her mother approach her table and decided she didn't want to discuss the situation with her; Stephania got up and hurried out of the tent, heading for the house, keeping an eye out for Jeremy and Cory but she couldn't see either one. Who she did see was the cutie pie named Joe walking towards her on his way to the tent.

_Cutie Pie?_ she thought to herself in disbelief and shook her head. He looked like he was around the same age as her mom. What on earth was wrong with her?

"Hey," she said to the security tech, smiling pleasantly. "Ready to eat yourself sick?"

He shrugged shyly. "I guess so. Is the food good?"

"Sure," Stephania answered. In truth she'd barely had anything to eat but she didn't say so. "Look, why don't you grab some food and then join me on the veranda to eat. Don't look like that, I just want to talk to someone who doesn't look at me like their daughter. 'Kay?"

Joe looked at her with a puzzled frown but then shrugged and gave her a small, crooked smile. "Sure, I guess. "

Stephania smiled at that.

Once he had gotten himself something to eat and drink he joined her on the veranda. She sat on one of a pair of Adirondack chairs and he sat in the other.

"So," Joe said quietly. "Um…I don't have very many people who want to talk to me about…stuff. Uh, so, I guess I'll just listen."

Finding him amusing she nodded and took a deep breath. "Don't look so nervous. I just had two guys almost get into a fight over me—which has never happened before—and I'm pissed off with the way my mother's friends dealt with the situation without checking to see if I wanted them to interfere."

"Ah," Joe said with a nod as he took a bite out of his hamburger. She noticed that his hands were shaking noticeably. Was he afraid of her?

"Did you ever have your parents do that to you? Interfere in your life and embarrass you in front of your friends?"

Joe swallowed his food, and stared at the floor. "Uh, well, not exactly. Um…uh, my parents weren't around much. My older brother, um, took care of me growing up."

"Oh," the teen responded. She could see troubled emotions in his eyes. "Where were your parents?"

He met her gaze. "My d-dad was a travelling sales rep and my mom…well, um, she was sick. T-too sick to look after us properly."

"I'm sorry to hear that. So it was just you and your brother against the world, then?"

Taking a drink of juice first, Joe then shrugged again and answered, "Um, I have t-two brothers, both older than me. Jimmy was closer in age to me. He's two and a half years older. From the t-time I was a b-baby he looked after me. No one asked him; he just d-did."

"And the other brother?"

A shrug was his answer to that as he shoveled a forkful of potato salad into his mouth, chewed it completely and then swallowed and took another drink. "This is good," he told her with a smile. "The food b-back at the residence is _not_ so good."

If Stephania had been a horse her ears would have turned towards him. "Residence? What kind of residence?" She wondered if he wasn't cognitively disabled and lived in a group home. It would explain his shyness and slight stammer.

Joe's eyes suddenly flashed nervously. She saw that and wondered if she'd asked him something too personal for him to discuss with a stranger.

"If you don't want to tell me, that's okay," Stephania assured him. "It's none of my business anyway."

He nodded appreciatively and they sat in silence as he ate. Strangely, Stephania didn't find it all that uncomfortable. Her curiosity was piqued and she wasn't certain why.

When Joe looked up from his food and spoke to her, it surprised her a little. "You're lucky. You have a mom and friends who c-care about you. That's…that's special."

There was something about what he said and the way he said it that seemed very sad. She was lucky, she knew, but sometimes it didn't feel like it. Sometimes she wished everyone would just let her grow up already.

"I know." Stephania sighed. "So you and Jimmy are close then?"

"Yeah…well, we used to be best friends. We did everything together. Now…well, it's not his fault but I haven't seen him in two or three years and the last time I wasn't really with it."

The last part about not being 'with it' caught her attention. She wondered if that connected somehow to his mention of a residence. "Does he not live around here?"

Another shrug answered her. "He was a doctor…in Princeton. Then he became an alco—he got sick and now he's in a hospital in Texas getting better. He wrote me. Our parents told him where I was and that I was doing better and had a job and…." His voice trailed off and he quickly looked away from her when he realized what all he'd just revealed to her.

Stephania was beginning to piece a few things together. 'Alco' had probably been his almost saying the word alcohol or alcoholic. If that was this Jimmy's illness then the older brother would probably be in a rehab and treatment program in Texas. Joe had been estranged from his parents first, then his brother for a few years at least. 'Was doing better' indicated that something had been wrong with Joe and he was living in a residence…again, a group home for the physically—or mentally?—disabled? Or, perhaps it was a sober-living home for someone recovering from his own struggle with addiction?

"It's okay," the fifteen-year-old told him gently. "You don't have to feel embarrassed. Actually, I know a doctor who used to live and work in Princeton. He lives in our rental house and works in Philly now. May I ask you another question?"

Joe appeared to be reluctant to acquiesce but after a few moments of hesitation he nodded, his eyes on the floor again.

"Have you been ill recently?" she inquired. "I realize it's none of my business—"

"Yes," he admitted, cutting her off. "But I'm safe to be around—really! I'm taking my meds and I'm thinking clearly and…um…no violent impulses."

_Mentally ill_, then, Stephania thought, _but with which illness?_

She took a stab in the dark. "Schizophrenia?"

Joe slowly stood up with his half-empty paper plate and plastic glass. "Uh, I should p-probably go b-back to work now."

Before the teenager could say anything to him he was gone, heading to the nearest trash barrel before heading back to the house. Stephania sighed, annoyed at herself for pushing too far with the questions. She got a good vibe from Joe; she felt comfortable around him and he struck her as being a sweet person underneath a frightened and physically scarred exterior.

With a sigh she got up herself and checked her watch. She still had a-half-an-hour or so until she would be needed to help organize and lead the family games and races, not that she much felt like it. She needed to think and she always thought best with her horses. She headed for the stable and neighboring corral.

**Sunday, July 4, 2010; 2:56 P.M.**

An isolated shower caused rain to fall against the window in his room creating soft multiple percussions as background noise to his thoughts. Most of the other residents were outside on the patio enjoying their own Fourth of July celebrations, rain or shine, but he hadn't felt much like celebrating. This was the third year in a row that Wilson 'celebrated' the holiday apart from House. For most of their friendship the diagnostician and the oncologist had celebrated Independence Day together, barbequing thick juicy steaks, sitting around drinking beer and after dark watching the local fireworks show. Sometimes it had been just the two of them, sometimes with one or both of their dates or Stacy and Wilson's wife Bonnie with them. After the infarction there had been the odd year where one of Wilson's wives would make arrangements to celebrate with her family and House and he would be unable to get together but this was the first time they were separated for three years in a row.

The one year had been after Amber had died and Wilson was still on bereavement leave from the hospital, avoiding House like the plague. Even though he'd been both angry at House and ashamed of himself for the kind of risk he'd asked the older man to take Wilson had thought about him and had missed him. House had spent that holiday recovering at home alone after having been released from the hospital only two weeks before. Of course, against doctor's orders the diagnostician had drunk like a fish and had been passed out for much of it, including the fireworks. The year after that House had been a patient at Mayfield undergoing rehabilitation for his Vicodin addiction and Vicodin-induced psychotic break. Wilson had wanted to go up and visit him but Dr. Nolan had felt that it hadn't yet been the right time to come up and visit his friend so he hadn't. House had never told him how his Fourth went that year but it had been Wilson's turn to miss House terribly, get plastered and miss the fireworks show. Then there was this year. It was Wilson's turn to be hospitalized in a rehab program over the holiday. He had no idea how House was celebrating so far away in Philadelphia but he figured that with all of the friendships the older man had been developing there it was unlikely that he was sitting around alone and drinking his sorrows away. Hell, it was possible House was dating and spending the day with her…or him. Perhaps he was with that Justin that had been showing an interest in House.

No, while the others at Silver Springs enjoyed the day that was marked with scattered showers, above ninety-degree temperatures and little wind, he stayed in his air conditioned room, sitting at the desk writing letters. They were part of an assignment from his Communication group. He'd written one to his parents and one to Danny. He intended to do so at least once a week.

Wilson smiled at the thought of his younger brother. The one bright light in his otherwise dismal late spring and early summer had been learning that Danny had not only been found and re-hospitalized for treatment but had really worked hard this time to get better. Wilson's parents had informed him that Danny was living in a group home where he had a great deal of independence—even a job with a security company training to be a computer tech—receiving his anti-psychotic meds through monthly injections and once daily tablets. He was kept track of by counselors on sight making certain that he took his medications faithfully and made it to all of his doctor's appointments. It had been a huge burden lifted from Wilson's shoulders to know that Danny was alright, safe and sound and keeping the worst of his symptoms under control.

It was ironic that he, too, now lived in Philly. Perhaps, once his own treatment program was completed Wilson would fly to Philadelphia to spend some time with Danny—maybe take in a few movies, a few ball games, dinner and quiet nights talking and getting reacquainted with each other after so many years apart. It gave Wilson a goal to strive for and a reason to get out of bed in the morning, something he'd been sorely lacking just a few weeks ago.

This letter he wrote today was the hardest one, left until last. This one was for House. Wilson had no idea whether or not he was going to actually mail it to him but he was writing it, nonetheless, as part of his therapy and recovery. There was a part of him that wanted to mail it, wondering if House would even open the envelope and read it when he saw the return address. Not that Wilson had any right to expect him too. He'd been the one to destroy any chance of them being lovers and ending their friendship as well. He'd seen the pain in House's eyes that day in the hospital and it had torn out his own heart. This was his opportunity to apologize and explain and try to make some kind of amends. More than anything Wilson coveted the diagnostician's forgiveness. He dreamt about perhaps even regaining his friendship again, though he had no illusions of House ever trusting him enough for them to be _best _friends again. To become lovers…well, Wilson was certain that _that_ ship had sailed and sunk to the bottom of the ocean even though, every night, in his dreams, it came true.

Taking a deep breath Wilson put pen to paper.

_Dear House, _he wrote slowly and carefully, picking and choosing the word he wrote very carefully, _I'm writing to you from Silver Springs Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation Center in Houston. I've been here for almost a month now. After the last time I spoke to you and Dr. Hutton I hit rock bottom in record time. I came to Texas for a job interview and screwed up by getting drunk the night before and missing the interview. I realized that you had been right—just as always. I'm an alcoholic and I needed help. I'd destroyed my relationship with the most important person in my life because of my pride and the booze that fed it. My career was in ruins, I was completely alienated from everyone I knew, and I hadn't wanted to live anymore. I sat in my hotel room contemplating suicide. I was looking through the yellow pages for gun dealers, wanting to buy one to blow my head off when a business card fell out onto the floor. It belonged to one of the psychiatrists who work here. I'm not saying that it was God or fate, but it was certainly a timely discovery._

_I called the number on the card and less than an hour later I was in the psychiatrist's car on my way to the center. It was the hardest and most valuable decision I have ever made to come here and get help. Jesus, House! I had intellectually understood what all you went through detoxing and undergoing treatment but I really had had no clue of what you had really endured! The pain and sickness of withdrawal—I nearly went mad with it. But that was the easy part compared to the therapy. I'm having to learn and uncover things about me that I had hoped I would never have to face and there's still so much more shit to be uncovered and worked through that I don't know how three months are going to be long enough to even begin to scratch the surface of just how incredibly fucked-up I really am. You were nowhere near as broken as I am, not to diminish at all your pain and struggles in any way. _

_As I'm sure you know, writing this letter is part of an exercise for one of my therapy groups but I think I would have written to you regardless to thank you for trying to help me. Thank you for refusing to allow yourself to become entangled in my alcoholism and enabling me. You allowed me to fuck things up so badly for myself that I had no alternative but seek help if I was to survive. You saved my life. I will never be able to repay you for that._

_I'm sorry for the way I've treated you all these years. I'm sorry for looking down on you, judging you, hurting you and deserting you. In the hospital, I told you that I didn't want to be your friend anymore, but that was a lie. Deep down I knew that I wasn't good for you, that being with me the way I was would only drag you down and keep you from becoming everything you could be and of ever having a shot at happiness. Even as fucked-up and jealous as I was (am?) I wanted you to have your chance at a new start._

_But I haven't stopped loving you. I'm still in love with you, House. I think I always will be. I know that I don't deserve your forgiveness, much less your friendship or love. But I hope that eventually you will be able to forgive me and we can be friends again. You were the best thing ever to happen to me and I threw it away, but I'd sacrifice my left arm just to hear you say to me that you forgive me, or at least that you don't hate me. That's my dream. It's what I hold on to when I feel like giving up._

_Wilson._


	49. Chapter 49 Part 3 Ch 15

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author. Unbeta-ed. Sorry.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **~8000

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Fifteen: Sunday, July 4, 2010; 2:59 P.M.**

Of course, House and Clee made it back in time for the talent show. Clee sent House up ahead so he could prepare for his act and surprise him completely with it. To say that the diagnostician was curious and frustrated by being made to wait was an understatement. Then again he had his own act to think about; though he'd pretended that he hadn't wanted to participate, it had been an act. In truth, he'd been excited at the prospect of being involved but admitting to that would have been another blow to his surly, misanthropic reputation, and he'd already had too many of those lately for comfort. As soon as he'd made his decision he'd started practicing a number with some of the members of Clee's band behind the surgeons back to surprise _him_.

Hutton had asked Roth to M.C. This was a tradition and he made for a marvelous host for the show. He was a fearless public speaker, had a dry wit and personable demeanor that House was mildly surprised by, although he didn't know why that was so. He had barely known anything about Roth before the BBQ; his interactions with him had been solely pertaining to the hospital and work. His frank honesty, no-nonsense approach to business and life, non-judgmental approach to interpersonal relationships, loyalty to family, friends and employees, and shrewd, sharp intellect were characteristics House respected.

The main tent was filling with BBQ attendees coming back from games, races and visiting and anxious to watch and participate in the show. Hutton saved House a seat near the judging table right in front of the stage so that he wouldn't have far to walk to reach the stage for his part of the show. Bryce and Claris were seated a couple of rows behind him but Gage Anderson was nowhere to be seen. House wondered if he wasn't getting into some kind of costume for an act. Stephania was seated with other teens her age on the other side of the tent. The diagnostician was satisfied to see that neither Jeremy the Jerk nor that Cory idiot was anywhere near her. The kid from her science camp had been wise enough to stay away after being kicked off of the property earlier and the security company employee was present but seated at the far back. His co-worker obviously had been left to man the system in the basement of the house alone. House wouldn't have known the other guy to see him; just that there in fact was another tech working that day. David was sitting with the Roth boy and a couple of other kids House had seen the ten-year-old hang around with on occasion.

House was relieved when he saw Clee's fellow band members show up and sit down about halfway down the tent. He nodded at Zafar Dahliwal and received a knowing nod in return. The judges were Bonnar, a doctor from the psych department named Downie and the county reeve, Julian Delwick. House figured that someone should find a large gong to put behind the judges but he decided to keep that thought to himself.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Welcome to the Annual Hutton Barbeque Talent Show. My name is Xander Roth and I'll be your M.C. today. For those of you who have attended and participated in the past there is the knowledge that there is astounding talent in our midst. For those of you new to the celebration I'm certain that you'll be impressed as well. This show is also a competition and prizes will be awarded to the best acts in music, dance and variety acts. Our judges today…" House zoned out a little as he looked around looking for Clee. There was no sign of him. He was very serious about keeping this act of his secret.

The first act up was a dance number performed by Renate Roth and two young men her age named Timothy Something and Jerry Whatshisname. House wasn't really all that interested in dance except for the tight-fitting leotards dancers had to wear that pretty much left nothing up to the imagination. Since the three performing were teens and one of them was his boss's daughter, that wasn't a factor to claim his attention. Still, he was impressed when he saw their act. They danced and sang to a number from "Singing in the Rain" and their costumes matched the raincoats worn by Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds and Donald O'Connor on the official movie poster of the time. They were very, very good, and House later learned from Roth that the two guys were Renate's friends from dance class and they'd performed the act for their Spring Gala and had received positive enough comments to perform it at the barbeque. House had watched the movie once when it had been Wilson's turn on pizza and beer night to pick what they watched. He had actually enjoyed the movie, not that he'd ever admitted that.

Two less than stellar soloists crooned to "I Love a Rainy Night" and "Need You Now" respectably. House hadn't even bothered to pay attention to their names—just that he didn't recognize them from anywhere. They sounded like karaoke singers whose equally drunk friends had told them that they were good. Everything sounds better when you're drunk, he mused.

Following the singers was a yodeler. House was about to get up and leave then tent when she finished to a smattering of applause.

"Thank you, Marcia," Roth said with a smile as she left the stage. "Our next performer hails from the acreage you are currently occupying. Playing a portion of Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto number one in E-flat minor is Stephania Hutton."

House barely repressed his smile when she came onto the stage and sat down at the piano. Without the use of sheet music she paused a moment with her fingers barely touching the keys, poised to begin. With a deep breath she began to play; and could she ever! House sat enthralled with her mastery of the piece. He closed his eyes and without being aware of it his fingers played along with her on his lap. He had known that Hutton's daughter was a talented pianist, but he hadn't expected her to be quite this good. Her touch, her timing and subtle use of changing dynamics was perfect and for a fleeting moment House wondered if she wasn't playing air-piano to a prerecorded rendition played by someone older and more experienced than she. He didn't realize that he had a smile on his face as she finished, stood up and bowed formally to the applause before leaving the stage. House was actually applauding with everyone else in the tent. He caught Stephania's eye for a brief moment, giving her a small smile and wink. The girl blushed seven shades of red and looked away quickly.

After Stephania, Gage Anderson performed an illusionist act and the diagnostician had to admit that he was impressed. His slight of hand was superb. House knew a few tricks himself and could usually pick out the secret immediately when watching a performance but Gage actually had him stumped a couple of times; any time someone managed to stump him House was impressed.

A five year old performed a little song on her violin and House thought the minute and a half-long piece would never end.

David Hutton performed 'The Entertainer' on the piano and while it was played very well, he didn't have nearly the natural talent for the instrument his sister did.

When Hutton herself was introduced, House's ears perked up—metaphorically speaking. Roth told the audience that since she was a judge her performance wouldn't count as part of the competition. She went to the center mike while Stephania accompanied her on the piano. She began to sing 'Glitter in the Air'. Her voice was a smooth, rich contralto and she sang the song with intense feeling. House was amazed.

"'…_Have you ever hated yourself for staring at the phone? Your whole life waiting on the ring to prove you're not alone? Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry? Have you ever invited a stranger to come inside_?'"

This verse evoked feelings of sadness and loss in House that he tried to push away. How many years had he spent waiting for Wilson, waiting for the phone call that would be Wilson telling him that he'd realized that he was in love with him? And how many times had he been disappointed, having to sit back in silence and heartbreak and watch the oncologist hook up with woman after woman and reject him?

He thought about earlier that afternoon, Clee lying next to him in the high grasses of the field beyond the stable, holding him, caressing his skin with the feather-light touch of his lips, whispering in his ear just how much he loved House and all of the ways he intended on showing him that it was so. House had cried, a little, and had tried to hide it from his lover but hadn't succeeded. Clee had kissed the tears away without a word. House realized that if he hadn't taken the risk of that first date with the vascular surgeon he wouldn't have experienced that kind of love and tenderness.

"'_Have you ever wished for an endless night_?'" Hutton continued to sing like a meadowlark in flight. "'_Lassoed the moon and the stars and pulled that rope tight? Have you ever held your breath and asked yourself will it ever get better than tonight? Tonight_.'"

When she finished she received a standing ovation. House stood along with everyone else. Following her performance there was a short intermission. The diagnostician stood and began to walk around to keep his ruined thigh muscle from stiffening up on him and cramping. He looked around for Stephania but she was no longer seated with her friends. In fact, she was nowhere in the tent at all. Neither was Cory the security guy. He frowned slightly and went to speak to Hutton.

"Hi," she said to him, smiling. "What do you think so far?"

"I've seen better at Mayfield," he told her, but a smile tugged at one side of his mouth.

"Well, there _are_ some very creative people there," she agreed, grinning broadly.

"Have you seen Steph?" House asked her, carefully keeping a tone of nonchalance.

Hutton cocked her head slightly, glancing around her through the crowd of people before turning back to him. "I saw her about two minutes ago talking to a small crowd of her admirers. She was wonderful, wasn't she? I know that she's been practicing that piece since last year's barbeque, but she really took my breath away."

Ordinarily House might have accused her of exaggerating as a proud mother but the truth was the teenager had played magnificently. "I was impressed," he admitted, his eyes still scanning the faces in the tent. "I was looking for her to tell her."

"She probably went to get something from the snack bar or to the bathroom," Hutton assured him. A nurse House recognized from the hospital snagged the psychiatrist's arm saying something about having someone who wanted to meet her and dragged her away. House continued to limp through the throng of guests, keeping his keen eyes open. When intermission was over and everyone was taking their seats again, Stephania didn't return to her seat.

_Damnit_, House said to himself. He had a bad feeling about her disappearance from the festivities but he didn't have time to pursue the matter because Roth was on stage again announcing the next act and it just happened to be the one he'd been waiting so impatiently for. The band playing for the dance later that evening came on stage.

"I can guarantee you that the next act will be the talk of the barbeque after he's finished dazzling you with his, uh…talent. If you have children, you may want to give them some money and send them to the candy booth right about now," Roth announced, smirking, earning a few giggles and chuckles from the crowd. "I introduce to you last year's talent show winner, Dr. Justin Clee."

House 's jaw nearly dropped to his lap when the surgeon appeared on the stage with a headful of long, curly locks running down his back, dressed in a slinky red sequined evening gown and red stilettos, the heels being four and a half inches high. A black feather boa was draped over his broad shoulders. His makeup was perfect and if House hadn't known who was under all of that he could have been easily led to believe that he was looking at a statuesque woman instead of a man in drag-a sexy man in drag. A grin crossed House's face when Clee looked his way and winked at him. House winked back and licked his bottom lip playfully.

"Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen and the rest of us…you know who you are," Clee said in a smooth, frighteningly feminine contralto. "My name for tonight is the Lady Justine. I dedicate this song to my sweetheart, Greg." The surgeon gestured to the seat directly to the left of the judges and waved his fingers at House, then blew him a kiss. A few wolf whistles came from different places in the tent. He shook his head but continued to smirk. He'd expected something unique from his lover, what with all the mystery and build up made about his past performances but this…this caught him by surprise.

"It's what was playing the first time we danced, my darling and I. Sorry, girls, he's _all_ mine—all six feet two and a half inches of pure, sexy man. Eat your hearts out."

To House's surprise there was the sound of disappointed 'aws' from a few women in the audience.

"Hit it, boys," Clee said to the band behind him. The introduction bars of "Cry Me A River" began to play. Cupping his red-fingernailed hands around the mike on the stand in front of him, Lady Justine began to sing. He sounded incredible and the diagnostician began to chuckle. His lover was incredible—a man who didn't take himself and his sexuality so seriously that he couldn't play, laugh and poke fun at himself and carry it all off with an incredible amount of class, polish and style. Clee didn't care what others thought about him or the things that some people whispered behind his back. He was proud of who he was and his accomplishments while being humble enough to realize that none of that mattered without the people he loved most in his life.

House was startled when a girl's voice beside him said to him, "That's my dad. Isn't he good?"

The diagnostician turned his head in surprise and saw the girl in the photograph sitting on Clee's desk back at the hospital—as well as hanging in frames on the walls of pretty much every room of his house. She had shoulder length, honey blonde hair and deep set, smoky blue eyes like her father. She had his perky lips and crooked smile, too. House looked up from her to the two adults seated on the other side of her. They both gave him a pleasant smile before returning their eyes to the performance on stage.

House felt a little apprehensive. He'd known Jenny was going to be at the barbeque and Justin had been excited about having the two most important people in his life meet each other for the first time. House, however, was afraid that he and the kid wouldn't get along—or worse, that they would, and then Jenny would be another person to lose and hurt over should what he had with her father fall apart. He wanted to be with Justin for the rest of his life, but he wasn't naïve, and he knew he could be an absolute asshole sometimes. If he was an asshole one time too many he knew he could lose the surgeon. If House cared for his daughter as well, that would only make it doubly hard to see them both leave.

"Yes," he told her with a nod. "He is."

Clee glanced over at House and noticed the new arrivals. Another smile split his face and he gave his daughter a wink. During the musical interlude Clee gracefully made his way down to the front row, cordless mike in hand, and walked up to Jenny, giving her an air kiss (so as not to leave a large red lipstick print on her cheek). He then turned to House and began to wrap his boa around House seductively. Lady Justine began to sing again.

"'Remember, I remember all that you said,'" Justin brought his face close to House and began to run his fingers through his unruly hair, earning some more whistles and howls from the audience, one of which House was certain came from a certain Australian who was ignorant of the fact that this was his last day of life because of that holler. Still, he had to admit that this was incredibly _hot _and he did feel very proud that he was the object of Clee's desire_._

"'Told me love was too plebian'," the surgeon continued, slowly pulling the boa off of House before kissing the top of his head and sashaying back to the stage, "'Told me you were through with me and now you say you love me, well just to prove you do. Come on and cry me a river, cry me a river, I cried a river over you. I cried a river over you….'"

The audience erupted in applause. Clee bowed, and then gestured to the band, the members of which bowed their heads in acknowledgement. Before he left the stage, Lady Justine blew House and Jenny kisses. The ten-year-old blew some back and waved excitedly.

House couldn't wait until he got that sexy number home and all to himself. He glanced over at Jenny. That could be a while, however. A couple more acts went by, both unexceptional, one being a really bad ventriloquist act. House felt it a little unnerving that throughout them Jenny spent more time studying him than watching the show. She had a contemplative expression that was the spitting image of her father's when House would catch him staring at him for no reason. He pretended not to notice, but secretly he was wondering exactly what the child was thinking about him.

The next act up was Linda Bonnar. She carried an acoustic guitar but not just any guitar; it was a Gibson J-200 sunburst with a 'tuneamatic' bridge in near perfect condition. House guessed it was a 1967 model, though it had been a while since he'd brushed up on his Gibsons. Roth brought her a stool to sit on. She directed one mike on a low stand at the box while singing into another mike on a taller stand. She had a surprisingly sweet mezzo-soprano voice with just enough edge to carry off the song she'd chosen to sing.

Bonnar began to pluck skillfully and sing. "'There I was with the old man, stranded again so off I ran. A young world crashing around me, no possibilities of getting what I need. He looked at me and smiled, said no, no, no, no, no, child. See the dog and the butterfly. Up in the air he like to fly. Dog and butterfly. Below she had to try. She roll back down to the warm, soft ground laughing, she don't know why, she don't know why. Dog and butterfly…'"

House's keen blue eyes swept around the tent again but there was still no sign of Stephania or Cory. Of course, the security tech was probably in the basement of the Hutton house where he belonged, but House still had a feeling about him. Then it struck him: David was nowhere to be seen either. He was no longer sitting with Roth's kid or anyone else in the tent either. There was definitely something off…it was like a word on the tip of the tongue, so close to remembering it yet so far away as well. House didn't know what it was he didn't like about the technician but there was something—he felt it viscerally.

He got up and limped past Jenny, her mother and stepfather and towards the back of the tent. This way he had a better all-round view of the rows of guests. He hoped to find the Hutton girl sitting somewhere among the two hundred or more faces but he wasn't looking for her anymore. He didn't know who or what it was he was looking for. The hair was standing on the back of his neck and on his arms.

"'…Another night in this strange town, moonlight holding me light as down. Voice of confusion inside of me…'"

House shook his head at himself. He was being ridiculous. There were police and security guards everywhere, not to mention at least a dozen eyes on the lookout for trouble. He was acting paranoid. He had to get a grip. Taking a deep breath, House headed around the main tent to reach the prep tent, hoping to catch sight of his lover returning from cleaning up and changing from his Lady Justine costume but once he got there Clee was nowhere to be seen. Where the hell was _he_ now?

Applause from inside the main tent told him it was time to get back inside. His act was up but he didn't think he'd be able to focus enough to do it justice. Nevertheless, he made his way back in time to see Roth returning to center stage and Bonnar coming down. She caught House there. Seeing the grave expression on his face she frowned. "House…what's wrong?"

He opened his mouth to answer and then realized that he had nothing he could tell her. There wasn't anything wrong that he knew of for certain and yet…

"I don't know. I have a feeling that something's not right."

Bonnar appraised him with her eyes for a moment and then nodded. "Does it having anything to do with the stalker?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. Listen, just don't say anything to Hutton yet until I know whether or not I'm being paranoid. No point in worrying her if I'm just imagining things."

"How often do you 'imagine' things, House?" Bonnar told him doubtfully.

"You'd be surprised," he muttered, almost under his breath.

"You're up," the OB/GYN told him with a nod at the stage. Clee's band had already taken their places, House's name had been announced and Roth was looking in his direction with a quizzical expression. "Don't worry about it. Go!" She gently pushed him towards the stage, using not even enough force to move him. House nodded, and took a deep breath. He gripped the handle of his cane tightly and then forced himself onto the stage to a smattering of polite applause. He went to the piano and sat down.

"Focus," he told himself as he flexed his long, tapering fingers and began to play.

**Sunday, July 4, 2010; 3:38 P.M.**

Joe sat at the table in the cool basement watching the monitors, bored stiff. He was a little pissed off that he'd spent most of the afternoon watching the festivities take place on CCTV while his lazy partner had gone for long smoke breaks and then had told him that he was going to go watch part of the talent show in the tent. Joe hadn't protested because he knew that he was the low man on the totem pole at the company and he really wanted to not only keep his job but also maintain pleasant work conditions with the people he worked for, including Cory. He knew that he was under scrutiny due to his past and his illness and didn't want to rock the boat. Still, he was sick of Cory shirking his responsibilities at every job they went to. This was typical behavior for his trainer, unfortunately.

When Cory returned Joe thought that he was going to get a smoke break and maybe catch some of the talent show, but he'd been wrong. The spiky blond (his hair was really brown, Joe noted, but recently he'd had it cut, bleached and spiked it with what had to be some form of cement) simply turned off certain cameras around the acreage. This had alerted Joe, since they'd had orders to keep all of them operational constantly.

"Why are you doing that?" he had asked his superior. "I thought all of the cameras were to be kept on at all times?"

"There's no one going anywhere near the stable right now," Cory answered, "or the field leading to them. What's the point of having their images litter the monitor if there's no need for them? Just causes more eye strain. Trust me, the Doc won't even notice or care. Personally, she's being paranoid, if you ask me."

"I don't know," Joe said, dubious of his friend's reasoning, "I think it's a good idea to keep an eye out for trouble during a party like this. I heard some people talking in the tent at lunch that she and her daughter have been threatened and stalked and that's why she's been putting in all of these new security measures. She's just being careful and making certain her family and guests are safe. I think I'd do that if I were her."

The other man said nothing for a couple of minutes; he was staring at one CCTV camera's recording in particular. It showed Stephania Hutton making her way up to the house, likely to use the washroom. Joe felt uncomfortable with the way Cory looked at the girl. He leered at her like she was a piece of meat, smiling wolfishly. He licked his lips too often and made rude comments like "Ooh yeah, baby, swing those hips!" or "Yeah, bend over honey, I wanna see a little titty action!" It made Joe feel dirty just listening to him.

Joe wasn't blind to the girl's obvious physical plusses but she was just that—a girl—far too young for Cory to be salivating over. He reminded him of the johns he'd see trolling the streets every night, picking up girls as young as ten being pimped by their mothers who were pros themselves; they were usually so jonesing for a fix that they'd subject their own babies to such disgusting things just to get the money for dope. The worst was when Joe had seen them shoot their own little girls up with the junk. Even lost in his world of hallucinations and delusions Joe had known that what had been going down was wrong, disgusting and tragic.

About ten minutes after he'd just gotten back, Cory had been ready to leave again. "Sweet thing said she'd show me her horses," Cory told him in confidence. "I'm hoping to do a little filly riding, if you know what I mean."

"That's disgusting!" Joe told him in disbelief. "She's a little girl. What do you want with a child?"

"Have you seen her T and A?" Cory asked him in returned, laughing mockingly at him. "That's no little girl. That's prime pickings. I'm going to go get me some tail. Be a buddy and cover for me if anyone should ask." He clapped Joe on the shoulder before heading up the stairs. On the monitor Joe could see that just as Stephania entered the house Cory met her and started talking to her. The teenager looked a little nervous, glancing around as if looking for an escape route but then she began to relax. Eventually she smiled weakly and shrugged, then led the way back out of the house. Cory turned to look directly into the camera and gave Joe a thumbs-up signal before following her out.

On the camera just outside the back door of the house Joe watched Stephania walk beside his coworker as they headed in the direction of the stables. He followed them some way until they moved into the zone where Cory had turned off the cameras. That caused the hair on the back of Joe's neck to rise. He'd shut those cameras down so he could take Stephania out that direction and no one would know what was going on. He frowned and tried to turn those cameras on again, but couldn't; his trainer has set a password and had effectively locked Joe out. There was no way he could reactivate them without the password.

He wasn't supposed to leave the station unattended, but Joe really had a bad feeling about this. He'd heard that Cory had a reputation with the ladies and he was concerned that he would try to force Stephania into doing some things that a girl her age shouldn't be doing, especially with guys Cory's age. Even though Joe didn't know the girl he still didn't want to see her put into a compromising or even dangerous position out there with him all alone.

Joe bit his lip hard, trying to decide what to do. He needed this job and didn't want to lose it by leaving his post, but he had to do _something_….

Getting up from the table he headed hesitantly up the stairs, cursing Cory for putting him in this position. He silently made his way toward the back door when a kid Joe was pretty certain was her brother, came in looking for a Band-Aid. A blister on the palm of his hand had popped and was oozing all over.

"Hey, kid," Joe said, catching his attention.

"What?"

"What's your name?"

"David. You're one of the security guys, right?" the ten-year-old asked.

"Yeah," Joe acknowledged, looking around nervously to see if anyone had noticed that he wasn't where he was supposed to be. The two nurses working the first aid center hadn't even looked in his direction. They were busy giggling and gossiping. "Look, um, I d-don't want to get anyone in trouble, but I saw your sister heading toward the stable with some guy who looked like he was t-trying to get fresh with her, if you know what I mean. Well, maybe you don't. Maybe you should go and b-bug them and make sure nothing happens."

"Nah," David replied. "Too boring."

_Shit! _Joe thought. He'd heard Cory talk about girls he'd dated saying no but that he'd known that _no_ always meant _yes_. He'd dated once or twice as a freshman in high school, usually on a double date with Jimmy and his treat of the week (Jimmy always had been followed around by a gaggle of giggling teenage girls). He'd known how hard it was to keep one's hands off of what was covered by clothing to start, the driving need, how pretty girls looked and smelled, how soft their skin was…but he'd learned that if a guy really liked a girl he'd respect her limits. Jimmy had taught him that; if a woman said no, it was _no_.

He knew he had to convince this kid that his sister was in danger without panicking him.

"D-David, I didn't want to scare you, but I think your sister might be over her head with the guy she's with. If you pester them, you might b-be protecting her. She could be in trouble. I'd go b-but I really need this job and if I leave my post unattended any longer I'll get in t-trouble. In fact, maybe go get an adult t-to go with you—but don't mention my name, okay? I'm not even supposed to b-be here t-talking to you. This is _serious._"

The boy looked at him skeptically then nodded. "Okay. I'll go." He walked out of the house again. Joe turned to return to his post when a pang of guilt hit him. That kid could change his mind, or get distracted, not understanding how urgent the situation was. Anything could happen to the girl. He struggled with a decision—to return to his post and hope for the best or head for the stable himself. If he went he could lose his job; if he didn't Stephania could lose a hell of a lot more.

"Fuck!" he cursed under his breath, turning back around and sprinting out the same way David had. He caught up to the boy, who had stopped to roughhouse with another kid roughly his own age.

"Kid," he said quickly, "I'm heading out there. Send somebody after me."

**(~*~)**

David walked down toward the main tent in search of someone he trusted. He didn't know a whole lot about what was going on with his mom and sister and the person threatening him and up until then he hadn't cared all that much (in spite of the terrifying incident and the panic room a few nights before). Now he was concerned. What if the guy the security dude said was with Steph was this creep? He'd heard and was smart enough to know that if he was, Steph could be in big trouble. He looked for a cop but didn't see one. He approached the back of the stage and looked around. A minute or so later he saw Clee come out of a port-a-potty and wash his hands at the station next to it. He'd wiped most of his make-up off, removed the wig, and changed into a t-shirt and shorts. His hair was messed up and he still looked like he had eyeliner on but at least he didn't look like a girl anymore.

David headed in his direction.

"Hey, Uncle Justin."

Clee looked up and smiled. "Hey, David, why aren't you watching the talent show?"

The boy came to stop right beside him shrugging. "It's Steph. I think she might be making out with some guy in the stable. She was with that blond security guy, going to show him her horses. Someone, uh, told me that he might try to do something to her. He headed down there and that I should find an adult to go down there as well."

Clee exhaled quickly, now looking very concerned and a little angry as well. "Go into the tent and tell Dr. House and Gage, okay?"

"Should I tell Mom, too?"

"Ask Gage to tell her if he thinks we should," Clee answered. "Tell them I'm heading down there to check things out. Hurry!"

David nodded and headed for the main tent. He looked from the back towards the stage, looking over the crowd for his mother's boyfriend. Seeing him he hurried in his direction. His Auntie Linda was singing on stage at the time. Gage was sitting about halfway down the row of chairs next to his mother and brother.

"Gage!" he said softly, but the pediatrician didn't hear him and was paying close to attention to the show. He tried again louder. "Gage! Gage!"

A couple of people between him and Anderson glared at David and shushed him but Anderson did look at him this time. He gave the ten-year-old the "What's going on?" look.

"Steph!" David nearly shouted. "Trouble!"

Several people in their immediate vicinity heard him. In the background he could hear Bonnar finish he piece to applause but Anderson was already on his feet and excusing himself past the others in the row to get to the aisle. He signaled for David to follow him outside the tent.

"What were you saying about Steph?" he demanded.

"A…um, a person told me that he saw her go down to the stables with uh, that blond security company dude—the one working in the basement—and he thinks that she might be in over her head, whatever the heck that means. I told Uncle Justin and he already headed down there and sent me to tell you and Dr. House."

As if on cue, the piano on stage began to belt out "Old Time Rock and Roll" with other instruments accompanying him and then House began to sing.

"Justin went down there alone?" Gage demanded, shaking his head. "The idiot!"

"Should we tell Mom?"

"There are only a couple of acts left," Anderson answered. "Wait until the end of the show then tell your Mom. As soon as Dr. House is off stage you can tell him. Then stay here. I'm serious about that. Don't go near the stable, okay?"

David nodded and watched Anderson move quickly towards a uniformed sheriff's deputy. Together they headed for the stable with the deputy on his radio. Turning around, David walked back to the edge of the tent and watched House perform his act. David had to admit he was pretty cool for an old dude. As soon as House was done playing David ran around the tent toward to the back of the stage and got there a few seconds before House reached him.

"What's wrong?" House demanded, getting the same alarmed look Clee and Anderson had had.

"It's…Steph," he told the diagnostician. "She's in the stable with that blond security guy …Uncle Justin went down there and told me to tell you and Gage. Gage told a cop…and they're on their way down there now…"

But House was already rushing away as fast as he could with his bad leg as soon as he'd heard that Clee had gone down there alone.

David sighed tiredly and sat down on the grass. Well, he'd done what he was told; now he was hungry.

**(~*~)**

Clee noticed that there was a light on in the stable almost immediately upon heading in that direction. Earlier, when they had ejected Jeremy from the barbeque he'd thought that they should have done something more with the security technician as well. Hutton had dealt with it her own way but if it had been up to the surgeon he would have put a little bit of the fear of god into the idiot rather than simply sending him back to the basement like sending a child to his room. The man had to have been in his thirties and should have had better sense than to flirt with a fifteen-year-old. Sure, Stephania did look a couple of years older than she really was but even if he'd though she was seventeen the creep should have had more scruples than that. What the hell did a man in his thirties want with a teenager, anyway? They were immature, inexperienced and needy. He saw his share of strapping young eighteen and nineteen year old men around the hospital, but they really did nothing for him because when he looked at them he only saw children. It actually disturbed him to know there were men and women who thought otherwise.

No, Clee liked his men more on the mature time. They tended to be wiser, more settled and easier to get along with. They were also a hell of a lot more experienced making for a much better fuck. He had no complaints when it came to House in that regard. The diagnostician had more than enough and knew exactly how to use it for maximum impact. For his age, House had quite the libido and staying power, but aside from proficiency he was also an incredibly gentle, tender and considerate lover. It was more than just sex being with House; it was a love story played out between them and Clee always felt like he was the most important person in the world when House held him in his arms.

No, this security technician was a bona fide creep. Clee figured it wouldn't be hard to put a hurt on this guy. He wasn't large or particularly muscular; the punk was probably good in a street brawl because he struck him as someone who wouldn't blink at fighting dirty.

Clee had learned how to kick ass out of necessity. He'd never been ashamed of his sexuality but hadn't exactly flaunted it, either. He'd grown up in a small rural community in the Kansas Bible Belt where beating one's wife was ignored so long as it was behind closed doors but being gay wasn't given the same pass. Once he'd been outted by his supposed best friend he'd been the pariah of his school, his parents' church, and the community in general. The ironic part was that one of the men in the community who had made his life a living hell had had a boy of his own he visited Monday nights when the missus was at the Ladies' Missionary auxiliary meetings at church. Clee had discovered this when he unwittingly began dating said boy the rest of the week. At any rate, he had been constantly cornered at school or on his way home by assholes thinking that they had the right to dictate whom he could fuck and whom he couldn't and to punish him for any 'violations'.

After coming home a handful of times literally crawling into the back door of his parents' house and being met by his teary-eyes mother she'd literally hid him in his room and treated his injuries as best as he could on her own; Clee had decided that enough was enough. He'd gone to his father (who hadn't yet figured out why his son was being brutalized—being drunk most of the time made hard to keep up on the community gossip and actually remember it the next day) to have him teach him how to fight. It had come in handy once his instructor became his opponent for real.

When he was about five yards from the stable he heard the sound of muffle cries in Stephania's voice. His heart stopped in his chest or so it felt. He covered the remaining ground between the stable and himself faster than he'd thought himself capable. The door to the building was open and the surgeon ran in. The cries were coming from an empty stall. Clee's eyes quickly swept his immediate environment, looking for a weapon. They stopped on a pitchfork. Without hesitation he grabbed it and shouted as he approached that stall.

"Steph, are you alright? Get your fucking hands off of her!"

Clee heard Stephania's cries become even more insistent. When he reached the stall he saw the prone form of another man lying on the straw-covered floor, a small pool of blood forming around his midsection. Cory was on top of the girl, pinning her down, his pants and underwear down around her waist and in the process of raping her; jumped away from her when Clee arrived. A righteous fury took over the surgeon's mind and he raised the pitchfork over his head with the intent of swinging it like a baseball bat and connecting with the security tech's head with the flat of the fork itself. As he reached the point of maximum potential in his backswing, Cory scrambled to grab something in the straw. He raised a gun, pointing it at Clee and firing.

**(~*~)**

Anderson and the deputy with him saw Clee way ahead of them. The pediatrician yelled, trying to get the vascular surgeon's attention but if he had heard him, he didn't show it. They picked up their jog to a full sprint over the uneven ground. Stumbling in a deeper depression in the earth Anderson nearly lost his footing altogether but managed to recover and keep upright. Sharp pain shot up his leg to tell him that he'd twisted his ankle but he chose to ignore it the best he could.

Clee entered the stable ahead of them. They were a little over ten yards from the stable door when they heard the gun fire. When they got to the stable they found Stephania, most of her clothes torn from her body, kneeling next to Clee, holding both of her hands against his chest. Anderson was the first to reach her, heedless of any danger. The deputy was behind him, and then holstered his gun. On the floor of the stable were two other bodies. One had a bleeding belly wound but looked like he was still breathing.

The blond lay face down, motionless, a pitchfork protruding from his back.

Anderson ripped off his T-shirt and handed it to Steph. "Hold this against his wound, tightly," he told her quietly, gently, touching her cheek. She flinched away from him but did as he said; she was still sobbing hard. He checked for a pulse and was relieved to feel that Clee still hand one. He moved from the surgeon to Cory and reached under him to feel for a carotid pulse. He looked over to the deputy who had gone to the unknown man with the abdominal wound and had removed his uniform shirt to use it to staunch the blood flow.

"This guy's dead," Anderson told him flatly. He couldn't give a damn over it. He moved to kneel next to the deputy and quickly checked on the stranger. His company shirt told Anderson that he was Cory's co-worker. He didn't know what had happened, but he wondered if this fellow had tried to protect Stephania and ended up being shot by the asshole lying dead a few feet away. This man was still alive but quickly weakening from shock and blood loss. Both Clee and he needed immediate emergency attention, and Stephania needed to see an emergency room as well.

The deputy had read his mind and was on his radio calling dispatch for air ambulance based on Anderson's suggestion. He also told his partner to grab some extra medical hands from the first aid station a.s.a.p.

Anderson hurried back to Clee's side, careful not to touch his friend anywhere near the wound with the other wounded man's blood on his hands. His T-shirt was quickly becoming saturated by the surgeon's blood. Clee appeared to be semi-conscious but too weak to speak or move. He was wheezing with every breath and it became apparent that his chest cavity was filling with blood.

"He's going to die," Stephania whispered over and over again, rocking slightly forward and back. Uncle Justin, please don't die, it's my fault, he's going to die…!"

"Shh, no Steph," Anderson told her gently, wanting to hug her but knowing better when she was in this state of mind. "He's going to be okay. It's not your fault."

**(~*~)**

House hurried across the uneven ground as quickly as he could but the terrain combined with the weakened muscles in his right leg and the searing pain from the damaged thigh forced him to stop. Up ahead of him, furthest away, he saw his lover run into the stable. Seconds later there was the explosive sound of a gunshot. Anderson and the cop sprinted into the stable seconds later. House screamed in frustration and terror, throwing his cane as far away from himself as he could. Curses left his mouth as he vented his frustration at the fact that once again his goddamned leg was keeping him from being a whole man, capable of hurrying to the scene like the other men took for granted. Instead he was a fucking cripple, useless and good for nothing. He couldn't be there to make certain Clee, Stephania, and the others were okay. Every fiber in his body was screaming at him to defend and protect and he simply couldn't.

He was a failure, _again_.

Sheer terror and desperation propelled him forward without his cane.


	50. Chapter 50 Part 3 Ch 16

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **~7500

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Sixteen: Sunday, July 4, 2010; 7:31 P.M.**

He sat alone in his temporary office, staring at the oversized tennis ball in his hand. He turned it round and round as if studying its surface intensely. In actual fact House didn't even see the ball. All he could see since the second he'd reached the stable was the image of Justin Clee bleeding out from his chest, Stephania rocking next to his lover's body, muttering to herself in some form of nervous breakdown, Cory dead a few feet away and the bleeding out body of a man who's face had instantly told House who he was but hadn't begun to explain what Daniel Wilson was doing in Hutton's stable slowly bleeding to death.

Setting the ball down, House leaned back tiredly in his wheelchair and brought his hands up to rub his tired eyes when they stopped short. They were stained with Clee's blood; it hadn't dawned on him that they were even tainted that way, much less that he should wash them. There had been far too much on his mind. Clee had been taken by air ambulance to St. Luke's, the closest Level one trauma center from Hutton's acreage. Daniel, though shot in the abdomen, hadn't bled out nearly as much as Clee and was able to survive the drive in a regular ambulance to St. Luke's. Stephania, along with Hutton, were taken in a second ambulance. Since Anderson had felt that House was in no condition to drive himself and shouldn't be left alone at his home to await Clee's fate, had pushed the diagnostician into the front seat of his car and even had had to do up his seatbelt because House wouldn't have thought to. Bryce and their mother had come separately and he took Claris home.

Anderson had flown under the radar, so to speak, weaving round other cars on the road. He wasn't stopped for speeding, fortunately, because the ticket would likely have been quite sizable if he had. The pediatrician had tried to engage him in some kind of conversation but House had barely heard him and hadn't come close to understanding what he had been saying to him. He stared out his window blankly, his mind spinning madly with horrible images, statistics and worst-case scenarios. Foremost had been the fear that by the time they reached the hospital his lover would be dead.

He was terrified. House had no idea what he would do if Clee died, but he knew it wouldn't be good at all. In just a few weeks he'd fallen in love with him and couldn't imagine a future without the surgeon in it. He didn't want to try.

At the hospital House had tried to get out of Anderson's car on his own but had been unable to; he had been brutal on himself, especially his leg, in his effort to get to the stable and as a result hadn't been able to put any weight on it without blinding pain. Anderson had gone inside and brought him a wheelchair. House had been too preoccupied to balk at being seen in one. He'd given his friend a grateful nod and had expertly transferred himself from the car to the chair.

When they had arrived, both Clee and Daniel had been taken in to emergency surgery and their status had been as good as expected at the time. Anderson, Bonnar and Xander Roth had sat in the waiting room with House (Roth's wife and kids had gone home, as had all the rest of the guests at the barbecue, of course), trying to distract him and comfort him. When Jenny and her parents had arrived, it became too much for House and he'd wheeled himself away from everyone, wanting to wait and worry alone. Bonnar, who had been taking turns with Anderson in going back and forth between the surgical waiting room and the ER, had walked with him as far as the elevators, saying nothing but lending her silent support. She simply had asked him where he was going to be so they knew where to contact him with updates and then had asked him if it would be okay for her to check on him occasionally. All of her loudness and sarcasm had been gone and he had appreciated her asking him. He'd agreed that it would be alright, surprising himself.

Sitting in his office alone now, House felt the craving for help with his fear and pain appear and intensify as the surgery on Clee dragged on hour by hour without a single update. He knew that Bonnar and Anderson wouldn't forget to contact him—there was simply no word from inside the operating room. He hated the fact that he was jonesing for the temporary relief Vicodin would afford him when his lover was fighting for his life; Clee would need him there for strength and support should he survive the surgery and House simply didn't know if he was strong enough to provide it. He didn't want to fall back into the hell of drugs again; he wanted to be the man Clee thought he was. He hated the fact that deep down beneath the façade was the heart of a coward. House knew the surgeon deserved better than him but he was also very selfish; he wanted to keep Clee even though the younger man was better off without him.

The next thought he had both startled him and caused him to feel guilty. House had wished he'd had Wilson to talk to about all of this or to just sit there with him in companionable silence like they had so many times over the length of their friendship. How could he be thinking about Wilson like this when his lover was undergoing trauma surgery? What the hell was wrong with him? He loved Clee, he was certain of it. Clee made him feel lovable and handsome and full of life and losing him now would leave him devastated, with no will to keep going on. So why the hell couldn't he forget about James Wilson?

House put his head down onto his desk, cradling it in his arms. He was a bastard, that's all there was to it. This bastard had to get his shit together if he ever hoped of being worthy of Clee's love. The problem was he didn't know if he could.

A knocking on the door made him jump and look up. House's heart felt like it was seizing; was this word? Was this someone coming to tell him that the man he loved was dead? His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton batten and he was barely able to tell whoever it was knocking to come in. The knot in his stomach tightened mercilessly as the door opened slowly.

He was amazed when he saw that it was Hutton. She looked exhausted, mentally, emotionally and physically. Yet, when she saw him she was able to offer him a weak smile. Her daughter had just been sexually assaulted and had witnessed the death of one man and the shooting of two others—yet she had taken the time to come see him.

"Hey," he said, clearing his throat and sitting up. "How's Stephania?"

Hutton approached him and then fell into one of the chairs in front of his desk. She sighed, looking grim. "Physically? He never actually penetrated her but he would have by the time Justin got to the stable if the other tech hadn't distracted first. So that's Wilson's brother, huh? What are the odds?" She shook her head and continued. "Emotionally…she's a wreck. After she was examined, treated and questioned by the police they admitted her but she was…not good. She's been given a strong sedative for the night so she's sleeping now. A psych assessment will made tomorrow. I've requested Dr. Landers make the assessment. He's very good and has a lot of experience treating victims of sexual assault. The first thing is to figure out where she's at and then create a treatment plan to try to prevent full-blown PTSD."

He nodded. In his own fear and shock he'd forgotten about her and the trauma she went through. She would receive the best care possible, he knew; Hutton wouldn't have it any other way.

"And you?" he asked, surprised at how easy it was becoming to be concerned about others' well-being even in the midst of his own pain.

She smiled sadly. "I feel like shit, thanks."

"Well welcome," House told her sardonically. "Misery loves company."

He watched as Hutton struggled to keep herself together. He wanted to be a support for her, but he was tapped dry. Needing someone to hold him up, yet too afraid to ask, he didn't have the strength to keep her on her feet. He wished he did.

"I stopped by the surgical waiting room," the psychiatrist told him. "Apparently word on Daniel is that they are closing and that he had done very well. His status is critical but stable. The bullet did a job on his ascending colon but they were able to repair most of the damage with only a minimal amount of it needing to be resected. Barring infection or other complications he should survive this. Still no word about Justin, though."

House barely nodded, swallowing hard. "You should be with Stephania."

"I will be," she assured him. "I wanted to check on you. What are you doing here all alone, House? This is not the time to isolate yourself. You need to allow your friends to support you right now. I know it's against your nature to accept comfort and help easily, but holing up here in your office all by yourself isn't healthy. I know you know that."

Sighing House told her, "Justin's daughter—is she still down there?"

Understanding lit Hutton's eyes. "Yes. I'm amazed that she's as calm as she is. Of course, Jenny could be in a form of shock. Children often react to stressors like this differently from adults. Was today the first time the two of you met?"

House rubbed at his thigh. He'd been given Toradol by Anderson shortly after his near collapse getting out of the pediatrician's car; it had dulled the pain but hadn't eliminated it. "We didn't actually meet. She and her parents came and sat down next to me just before Justin's act but we barely said a word to each other. There wasn't the opportunity. I know her from pictures and what Justin has told me about her. She seemed to know who I was as well. I suspect Justin has told her about me."

"I'm sure he has," Hutton told him softly. "You and she share something in common: you're both the most significant people in Justin's life. I know him. There's no way he would have been able to keep you a secret from her anymore that he's been able to keep her a secret from you."

House said nothing to that.

"House, what are you afraid of?"

His eyes locked with hers. "I don't know what to say to her. I can't…comfort her."

"Of course not." Hutton sat up in her seat. "You don't know her, and right now, you need comforting, too. You can't give if you're in need yourself. She has her mother and stepfather to comfort her. You may find, however, that she might actually be a comfort for _you_."

She got to her feet. "Come on. I'll treat you to a ride. I know it's foreign to you, but you need to allow your friends to love on you right now; doctor's orders."

For a few seconds House hesitated, not certain he could handle being around others any amount of time without losing his temper at some point and lashing out. They were his friends right now, but if they saw how bad his dark side could get they wouldn't stay his friends for long. He was troubled by how much he'd come to rely on these people. He couldn't handle the idea of losing them as well as Justin. Yet, Hutton was right—he needed someone to remind him that no matter what happened with his lover, he wouldn't be all alone.

House wheeled himself out from behind his desk. Hutton smiled weakly. She took hold of the handles on the wheelchair and pushed him out of the office.

**Sunday, July 4, 2010; 6:35 P.M.**

The barbecue had smelled so good that Wilson had had to go investigate. He'd finished his letter, sealed it in an envelope and put it under his pillow for safe keeping. After that he'd simply lain down to think about what he wanted his future to look like when his inpatient and outpatient treatment programs were over. He knew he wanted to spend some time doing the many things he'd always wanted to do but had never allowed himself to for one reason or another. One of those was to fly to Philadelphia to visit with Danny for a while. It had been so long since he'd been able to have a sane conversation with him, do things together and just remember what it was like to have a brother who actually wanted something to do with him again. He'd missed that so much that it seemed impossible that it was finally going to happen. He just hoped Danny continued to take his medication faithfully, attend therapy, and continue working and remaining active and positively occupied.

He lounged on one of the patio chairs, a diet soda in one hand and a hamburger in the other laughing at some of the conversation taking place with the other patients. He was glad his hunger had got the best of him and had drawn him out of his self-imposed exile. He was having more fun than he'd had in a very long time. In fact, one joke had him laughing until his side hurt and tears ran down his face. Wilson couldn't remember laughing like that since before Sam had reentered his life. He'd been with House, in his office. The diagnostician had come in to avoid Cuddy and clinic duty again and they had talked about the weirdest clinic patients the both of them had treated and laughter had ensued. Cuddy had heard them through the closed office door at the far end of the corridor, that's how hard they'd been laughing. House had ended up in the clinic after all, but the look he'd given the oncologist before following their boss out had been one that said it had been worth getting caught. Wilson had felt the same way.

"Uh oh," a male voice said, drawing Wilson out of his reverie. It was a nurse from his unit, Dorene, a fiftyish woman with graying brown hair, smiling eyes and pictures of her six-month old granddaughter in her pocket, ready at a moment's notice to flash and boast about.

"Uh oh, what?" Wilson asked, smiling pleasantly.

"I know that dreamy look when I see it," she told him. "So what's her name?"

Color rushed to Wilson's cheeks. "Uh, well, actually she is a he and his name is Greg."

"Greg, huh?" Doreen nodded, unphased. "So, describe Greg and don't leave out any of the juicy details."

"Actually, we're not together anymore," he answered and then took a drink of his soda. "We never actually were a couple. We almost were. We wanted to be…but life got in the way. He screwed up and I screwed up even more…my indecisiveness, fear of coming out, and then, of course, my drinking. We started out as best friends and then things changed. Now we're not even that, though I hope to change that when I leave here."

"Hmm," the nurse said with a thoughtful nod. "I see a lot of people come through here with relationships damaged or destroyed by their disease. It's never easy. Watching someone you love destroy him- or herself slowly isn't easy. In fact, it can hurt them as much as it's harming the person with the problem."

She didn't sound judgmental or disapproving. It simply was a fact that Wilson knew all too well.

"I know," he told her softly. He didn't tell her that for years he had been the friend of the self-destructive addict who had been slowly dying with House and then, ironically, he and House had traded places. "I hate myself for hurting him. I hope that eventually he'll be able to forgive me; if I'm lucky we may become friends someday."

"Be honest. You want more than that."

Wilson gave her a sad half-smile and shrugged wistfully. "I don't _deserve_ more than that. I'll take whatever I can get…but yes, I do want more. I want it all. First, though, I've got to get this messed up head on my shoulders straightened out. That could prove to be a lifetime endeavor!"

"Don't be too hard on yourself. You've got a lot to come back from, a lot of factors from the time you were a child that have negatively made an impact on you. You're only human, James, just like the rest of us. Pat yourself on the back for being here and taking your life back."

Alex appeared from inside the building and addressed Wilson. "James, there's a call for you."

Wilson nodded, set his food down on a table and followed the therapist inside. As they walked together to the administration wing, Wilson surreptitiously studied Alex's facial expression and body language. He could read very little because Alex had his objective mask on, one that Wilson had uneasily worn on a daily basis at PPTH.

Alex took him into his office and handed him the phone, then left the room, waiting outside of earshot but still close at hand in case he was needed.

Swallowing hard, Wilson answered, "Hello?"

"James, it's Dad." It was unnecessary for his father to tell the oncologist that; Wilson knew his voice like the back of his hand.

"Hi, Dad," he responded, his stomach fluttering nervously. "Good to hear from you. Happy Fourth of July."

There was a moment of hesitation. "Son, I'm calling to let you know that Daniel is in the hospital. He was shot in the stomach."

All color drained from Wilson's face. _What? No! How?_ Not now, not after he was doing so well!

"I-Is he alright?" Wilson didn't try to hide his distress. "Dad, he hasn't-?"

"He's still alive," the senior Wilson told his son, "but he's in critical condition. He just came out of surgery and he's stable but they have him intensive care. Apparently he was at some barbecue working when he was shot by his co-worker. There were a lot of doctors at this barbecue…including your friend Gregory. In fact, he's the one who called me. Daniel was taken by air ambulance to the hospital where he's working now, uh, St. Luke's Presbyterian."

Wilson's stomach flipped and his heart rate increased. House? Danny and House were at the same barbecue, House called his dad. What were the odds?

"Did he tell you anything else?" Wilson asked, wishing he could talk with the diagnostician personally.

"He mentioned that Daniel was trying to protect a teenager from being raped by his coworker when he was shot but nothing more. Honestly, he sounded…strange. Like he was trying hide the fact that he was worried or stressed, but he insisted that Daniel was alive and being watched around the clock."

_Did he ask about me?_ Wilson thought, then felt like an ass for thinking about himself while his brother was fighting for his life half-a-country away. It was unlike House to make the call himself, or, rather, the man he remembered. He told himself that House must have healed a lot since then.

"Your mother and I are taking the next flight to Philadelphia," his father said.

"I…wish I could join you." Wilson felt so isolated where he was. His family was going to be in Pennsylvania but he was alone in Texas, left waiting for news and worrying all by himself.

"Why can't you?" his father asked. "I realize that you're in the middle of your program, but surely there are exceptions for family emergencies, aren't there?"

The older man had no idea just how badly his middle son wished there was, but he highly doubted he'd be allowed to leave for a few days unsupervised. Wilson wasn't certain that he should. Then again, abdominal gunshot wounds were nasty and unpredictable. He didn't want to be sitting here in therapy session when a call came from his parents to tell him that his little brother was dead. He wanted to be there, to hold Danny's hand, to see him again…just in case.

"I don't know, Dad."

"Well, let me talk to that guy who answered the phone…uh, Alex, I think he said his name was," his father told him. "I'll make the arrangements—"

Wilson sighed silently. After years of never being there, now the man wanted to take charge of his son's life. He banished that bitter thought for the time being but reminded himself to bring that up in therapy.

"Dad, no, uh, it's okay. I can take care of it. I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, keep me updated regularly, please. Give Mom my love."

"I will. Good-bye, Son."

Hanging up, Wilson stood staring at the phone for the longest time. He was at war with himself, his rational mind fighting his emotional mind. He needed to be there, to see Danny. He didn't trust himself to stay away from drinking on his own, especially should Danny die, or he should run into House while there which seemed highly likely. _Damn it!_ Wilson yelled in his mind. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself and then left the office, finding Alex waiting for him.

"My brother—" Wilson began to explain but Alex nodded and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I need to be there."

The therapist sighed. "You're not ready for this kind of crisis, James."

Wilson knew he was right and yet…

"He could still die, Alex." The oncologist rubbed at the tension in the back of his neck. "I want to be sure I see him while he's still alive. I know it's a risk…"

They stood silently, both thinking about the situation and the consequences both of going to Philadelphia and of not going. There was no easy, palatable answer and they knew it.

"Let me talk this over with the rest of your therapy team," Alex said at last. "I'm not promising you anything, James. I have huge reservations about allowing you to leave mid-treatment for something as stressful and emotionally charged as this situation is."

"Me, too," was Wilson's sober assertion.

**Sunday, July 4, 2010; 9:20 P.M.**

It was brightly lit and freezing cold in Recovery. House shivered slightly under his sterile scrubs. He'd only been wearing a T-shirt and long shorts when he arrived at St. Luke's and the cotton material of the hospital garb was no insulator. It couldn't have been more than sixty degrees in the room. Why hospitals insisted that operating and recovery rooms had to be refrigerators he had no idea.

It had taken a great deal of encouragement and a tranquilizer prescribed by Hutton before the diagnostician had been able to enter Recovery and sit next to his lover. His own fear and pain was so great that his first impulse was to run and hide, to deny that someone he loved was close to death and could still die. Comforting and nurturing were House's weak traits. He didn't know how to show what he was feeling and it made him more than uncomfortable just being there at Clee's side, waiting for him to wake up. It was only the fact that he did love the surgeon as much as he did that he was able to be there—that and the one milligram of Ativan injected into him by a surprisingly gentle nurse. Of course, he was used to the nurses he'd terrorized at PPTH, the vast majority of whom actually enjoyed getting back at him by inflicting pain.

He picked up one of Clee's limp hands and held it with both of his. It was cold. House brought said hand to his lips and tenderly kissed each finger in turn then tried to warm them between his large, warm hands. The younger was so pale that it wasn't hard to imagine him a corpse. House tried to force that image from his mind. Clee was alive, he was critical but stable. The bullet had lodged itself in the pericardium but had missed damaging his heart by a millimeter at the most. How it hadn't House didn't know. By rights his lover should be dead.

_But he's not,_ House told himself firmly. If he believed in God he would be offering up a prayer of thanksgiving; since he didn't he simply was grateful Murphy had taken his Law on a trip away from Clee when that trigger had been pulled.

There was a slight change in the rate of the surgeon's heartbeat that made House pay attention. He saw two smoky blue eyes open a little. It was actually surprising that he was coming out of the anesthesia quite this soon but House wasn't going to complain. He reached up to gently caress Clee's cheek. He was intubated and would be for a while yet, perhaps a couple of days yet.

"Hey," House said softly to his lover. "Don't try to talk—you're intubated. Let me preface what I want to tell you with the assurance that I love you. With that said, you're an _idiot_, did you know that? Going alone to face a dangerous stalker? If you weren't laid up in here I'd kick your ass for that kind of stunt. Guess I'll have to be satisfied with a lecture and an insult."

Clee blinked, and the tips of his lips curved upward slightly. House couldn't help but grin at that. There was a huge lump stuck in his throat and he had to swallow hard to get rid of it. He was struck again with the realization of just how much he loved this man and how lost he would have been had Clee not survived.

The younger man looked up at him with apologetic eyes.

"You're sorry, huh?" House murmured with mock-suspicion. "Well, I guess you'll have to hurry up and get out of here so you can prove it to me properly."

Clee's eyes drooped tiredly; House leaned in to press a gentle kiss to his boyfriend's forehead.

"Go back to sleep," the diagnostician told him. "When you wake up you'll be in ICU and I'll be there to make certain you behave yourself. Only one rebel without a brain allowed in this relationship and you're _not_ him."

Again there was the upward turn of the corners of Clee's mouth before his eyes fluttered closed and his heart rate slowed accordingly.

Once he was certain that the surgeon was out for the count House allowed him to be wheeled to the Intensive Care unit; the older man limped beside his gurney in spite of the pain in his leg because he refused to let go of his hand for a second.

**(~*~)**

Her room was quiet and dark. Because she hadn't suffered life-threatening injuries or needed constant watch over her vitals there were no monitors or alarms to go off and startle Stephania's already frazzled nerves. The Ativan she'd been given had her out like a light, for which Hutton was grateful. Seeing her little girl one nerve short of a breakdown had nearly immobilized the psychiatrist. It was one thing to objectively observe it in her patients, quite another in her own daughter.

Hutton had experienced brief flashbacks to her own rape, after which she'd had to leave the room to sob outside of her daughter's presence. The guilt she felt weighed her down like a hundred pound weight on her shoulders. If only she'd listened to her friends and the police, had been less pig-headed and stubborn, and had cancelled the barbecue this year Stephania wouldn't have been assaulted and Clee and Daniel Wilson wouldn't have been shot. Because of her insistence not to be bullied she'd damaged at least three lives. She didn't count Cory in that number; she was glad he was dead, glad that he couldn't victimize another human being again.

How could she ever possibly forgive herself for this? She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the mattress of Stephania's bed. Her entire body shook as she sobbed silently, stifling some of the sound with the light blanket covering the fifteen year old. When would it stop? The pain, the madness, the fear—when? First her hand, then the addiction, followed by losing Marcus with a ten year old and a five year old to raise on her own. Next had been her rape to battle through the healing and now…now because of her pride her sweet girl had to suffer like this! Not only her but Clee, and as a result, House. That poor man, Daniel…it was so much, too much. Just too much! She pretended to be strong for the sake of others but she wasn't strong. She felt so weak and selfish and, and…evil. The sobs came even harder now and she couldn't hold back the groans.

She felt a hand touch her shoulder and she looked up to see Anderson looking down at her with pained eyes. She stood up and threw herself into his arms. He held her tightly, like he thought she might run away if he didn't. She buried her face into his chest and continued to sob. She felt the pediatrician kiss the top of her head and then rest his cheek there. He didn't try to quiet her or ply her with trite words of comfort; instead he stood as someone strong enough to hold her up and protect her and wise enough to know that she wouldn't hear anything he said to her at that moment, anyway.

What Hutton didn't know was that he was on the verge of tears himself. He'd known Hutton and her children since before her husband had died. He watched her children grow and loved them almost as much as she did.

Anderson had seen how strong Stephania had pretended to be after being an eyewitness to her own father's murder, had treated the symptoms of her body's reaction to unexpressed grief—the spiking fevers, blister-like rashes, bouts of 'unexplained' gastrointestinal pain and disturbances, and migraine-like headaches. She had been unable to express her pain in the form of tears and sobbing so her body had reacted to the psychic stress in a physiological fashion. Once the girl had received counseling and was finally able to express her grief emotionally, the symptoms had simply disappeared. Psychosomatic presentations of grief in the form of illness weren't unheard of by any means; he feared of something similar occurring again.

He also hated seeing her mother in such distress. Anderson had had a crush on Olivia Hutton from the first moment he'd met her at a hospital function. He hadn't pursued his interest in her because she was a married woman and his mother had taught him some scruples growing up. It had taken them over ten years to finally be together and he loved the psychiatrist more than he had anyone else in his life. His heart was breaking to see Hutton as broken as this but he didn't really know what to say or do to make things better. All could do was hold her and be there for her; he hoped that it would be enough.

"I love you, Liv," he whispered into her hair and felt her cling even tighter to him. They would weather this together.

**Monday, July 5, 2010; 8:12 A.M.**

Someone saying his name was shaking his shoulder annoyingly. House wanted to strike out at whoever it was that had the nerve to bother him while he was sleeping. As he slowly emerged from slumber he recognized the Australian accent and was more determined than ever to make Chase's life a living hell. First had been the comments at the talent show the day prior and now the Wombat had the nerve to disturb a pain-free sleep. Thanks to Anderson, the Toradol, and whatever muscle relaxant he'd given him, his leg had behaved itself for him.

The pediatrician had found him at about three in the morning At Clee's side in ICU and ordered House to go to his office and sleep on his sofa for a few hours, handing him the key. Since House's temporary office was the size of a broom closet, the vascular surgeon was most likely out until mid-morning, and his leg was beginning to cramp up and swell again he'd taken Anderson's drugs and had done as he was told.

Opening one eye a crack he looked up into Chase's ridiculously young face and sighed heavily.

"This had better be good," House growled at him. "There's already a shallow grave in my backyard waiting for you to push me one step too far." He closed his eye, rubbed his face, yawned and then slowly sat up, being careful not to jostle his leg too much. "I've heard wombats like burrowing in the dirt."

"Burrowing, yes," Chase agreed with a smirk (he obviously wasn't too afraid of his boss), "being buried with no way out—no. And it _is_ important. Mr. and Mrs. Wilson are here to see Daniel and they want to speak with you first."

House frowned, scratching an itchy spot on his head. His graying hair stuck up in every which direction, not that he cared. "Tell them I'm not his attending and they should talk to whoever that is."

The truth was he'd called the Wilsons about Danny out of respect but really didn't want to meet with them in person. He was trying to forget about Wilson, not be reminded about him. It was bad enough finding Danny unconscious and bleeding on the floor of the stall; he and James looked so damned alike that at first House had thought that it was his Wilson lying in the straw with a belly wound. The only really difference between the brothers was that Danny was a little bit fairer in hair and skin tone than his older brother.

"They know that but they still want to talk with you," Chase answered. "Also, we have two cases—one for me and one for you and new teams to break in."

"Can't," House informed him, slowly stretching out his bad leg and waiting for the sudden shot of pain to course up to his spine—_Ah!_—_There it is, damnit!_ "My boyfriend is in ICU and that's where I'll be. You'll have to lead both teams for the time being."

"Yeah," Chase responded facetiously, "_that's_ going to work. Look I know you're worried about Dr. Clee, but he's going to be unconscious about twenty-three hours a day for the next couple of days. He's not going to notice if you step out of his room occasionally to discuss the case with your team when he's sound asleep. It's not like you do any of the dirty work yourself and you can be working out the diagnosis while keeping vigil. Just…meet with them for an initial differential."

House glared at the younger doctor. What bothered him the most was that Chase was right. Most of his work he did while sitting on his ass anyway, so he could be there for Clee while still doing his job for which he was being handsomely paid. Not that he ever did anything out of guilt or obligation; a puzzle would probably help him from focusing on worst case scenarios and the pain in his leg.

With a curt nod, House gave his silent agreement to accepting the case.

"And the Wilsons?" the intensivist asked.

With a sigh House stood up slowly from the sofa and looked for his cane; after throwing it like a javelin the day before, one of the cops on site had found it in the grass and had returned it him. It rested on the top of Anderson's desk. He picked it up.

"Where are they?"

"In the ICU waiting room," Chase told him before walking out of Anderson's office ahead of House. "Your office, nine sharp."

House chose to ignore him as he locked up Anderson's office and then left the key for him at the nearest nursing station. He slowly made his way to Intensive Care. His leg was hurting around a five and he didn't want to put any more strain on it than he had to; he really didn't want to hold his first differential at a new hospital with a new team rolling around in a wheelchair. It would kill the shock and awe effect he liked to use to make the perfect first impression with his peons.

When he reached the waiting room the Wilson's rose to their feet. It was obvious that neither one of them had gotten any sleep. Mr. Wilson stepped forward and extended his hand to House. While the diagnostician didn't like shaking hands with people he did so this time out of respect. Wilson's parents had always treated him decently.

"Gregory, hi."

"Hello, sir," Greg responded stiffly. He nodded at Mrs. Wilson politely. "I was told you wanted to speak with me? You do realize that I'm not Daniel's doctor, don't you?"

"Yes, we were told that," Mr. Wilson told him. "Actually, we were wondering if you could tell us how this took place. You told us over the phone that he was shot trying to protect a girl but that was about it. How did he come to be at that barbecue and how did this all unfold? We'd kind of like to have a handle on what happened in case he wants to talk to us about it."

House had figured as much. He sat down in one of the chairs and the Wilsons sat down opposite him.

"I didn't know that Danny was in Philadelphia or that he was working as a security technician," the diagnostician told them. "The only way I knew he had to be Wil—James's brother was from the family resemblance."

"He was doing so well as an inpatient," Mrs. Wilson explained, "that his doctor recommended him for the residential re-integration program. Daniel has been taking his medication and except for the odd paranoid feeling or the auditory hallucination of whispers he can't understand he's doing wonderful. He lives in a group home, of sorts, where there are counselors who keep track of the residents, make certain that they're taking their meds and keeping their doctor's appointments. He was encouraged to get a part-time job to help with his integration back into society. He always loved computers and electronics so this job was a perfect fit for him, or so we thought."

Nodding with understanding, House cleared his throat and said, "The company he works for was hired by the owner of the acreage where the barbecue was being held. It was a large event and she and her family had been receiving threats to their safety. As it turned out, the individual threatening them turned out to be the co-worker in charge of training Danny. This co-worker lured a fifteen year old girl down to the stable on the property under the pretense of wanting to see the horses. We figure Danny sensed that the teenager was in danger. He sent her younger brother to get back-up help and then hurried down there alone to stop his co-worker from hurting the girl. At some point Danny was shot by the other guy and was found by my…partner, who was also shot—in the chest—before the police arrived. One of the individuals who was with the police was also a doctor from this hospital who kept both Daniel and Justin alive long enough to get to the hospital."

There was a few moments of silence during which the Wilson's processed what House had just told them.

"Your…partner? As in medical partner?" Mrs. Wilson asked nervously; her curiosity had obviously won out over her hesitation.

"Uh, no," House answered with the slight shake of his head. "As in my boyfriend." This was becoming uncomfortable, now. Since they were thinking it anyway, he added. "Um, I'm bisexual."

Mr. Wilson was frowning slightly, but he appeared to be more puzzled than angry. "I don't understand."

Rolling her eyes his wife said to him, "Like your cousin Leroy."

It suddenly dawned on him what she'd meant and he nodded. "Oh. Uh, well, uh…okay. Does James know about this?"

_Great_, House thought wearily. _This is heading exactly where I didn't want to go._ He had no desire to out Wilson to his parents. In fact, he wanted to avoid the topic altogether.

"Yeah," House told the older man with a nod. "He was okay with it. It really wasn't an issue." He rose to his feet, intent on ending this conversation right where it was. "If you'll excuse me, I have to get to work. If you have any questions about your son's health ask at the nursing desk and they'll take care of it."

"Thank you, Gregory," Mrs. Wilson said before stepping up to him unexpectedly and standing on her tip-toes to press a quick kiss to his scruffy cheek.

Feeling extremely self-conscious House nodded at her and then quickly left the lounge. While he was at the ICU he went to check in on Clee. He stood beside his lover's bed, looking down at him longingly. The surgeon's color was better than the night before, his O₂ saturation was in the low to mid-nineties which was also encouraging. He still wasn't breathing on his own but that was to be expected; even if he had been able to do it they were allowing the respirator to breathe for him so that his body had just that much more energy to devote to healing. When it was time they would gradually wean him off of the respirator.

House leaned down and placed small kisses on Clee's forehead and then one on each closed eyelid. He cupped the younger man's cheek and brushed his cheekbone tenderly with his thumb. Even after seeing Wilson's parents and their mentioning of him the diagnostician was still positive that Clee was the one he wanted. It was a relief to finally be certain of that.

"I love you," he murmured softly as he placed another kiss on the younger man's forehead. "Be back soon." He hesitated only a moment longer before grudgingly heading for his office.

**Monday, July 5, 2010; 8:09 A.M.**

He had just sat down for breakfast when Alex came into the dining room and zeroed in on his table. Wilson looked up expectantly. He knew that his treatment team had met early this morning to discuss the oncologist's desire to take a short leave of absence from the program to be with Danny. As much as he wanted to be there, Wilson had made up his mind to respect whatever the team's decision would be. His heart sped up the closer the therapist got to him.

"Well?"

"We came to an agreement that you could take a three day leave of absence on one condition," Alex answered. A relieved smile appeared on Wilson's face at the news.

He nodded in agreement. "Sure, what do I have to do?"

"It's not what you have to do, other than sign a safety contract before you leave hospital grounds," the therapist told him. "It's actually what I have to do. I have to accompany you, you know, be your chaperone, guard your every waking moment—that sort of thing. You'll be expected to cover the expenses."

"Of course," Wilson agreed. "When do we leave?"

"I took the liberty of booking us on the next flight to Philadelphia. It takes off in three hours."


	51. Chapter 51 Part 3 Ch 17

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Seventeen: Monday, July 5, 2010; 9:06 A.M.**

Hutton startled awake when she felt Stephania's hand move in hers. She quickly sat the recliner upright and looked into the face of her fifteen-year-old daughter. Wide eyes stared back at her. They were filled with darker emotions and were misting up but not tearing.

"Mom?"

"Good morning, baby," Hutton said to her softly, stroking her hair. "Do you remember where you are?"

Stephania nodded and tightened her grip on her mother's hand. "Were you here all night?"

"Yes. Where else would I be? How are you feeling?"

Shrugging and sighing, Stephania squirmed a little, trying to get more comfortable. "I don't know. Why don't I know?"

"You've been through a horrible experience." With nervous fingers Hutton straightened a corner of the light blanket covering her daughter. "It's not unusual to feel a little numb afterward. "Are you in any pain? The emergency room doctor said you'd been pushed and pulled and punched. Your right wrist was sprained; it's been wrapped to keep it immobile so it can heal."

"My muscles ache all over. My wrist hurts a little—it's more like it's throbbing than sharp pain. My head hurts the most, like a bad headache behind my eyes."

Hutton pressed the call button for the nurse on the side rail of the bed. "I'm pretty certain you're due for some pain medication. I'll have your nurse bring it. Are you hungry or thirsty? They said they'd hold your breakfast for you-"

"It's all my fault."

Stephania's affect was flat, blank, which matched her description of how she felt but not the content of the words she spoke. The psychiatrist in her mother knew that she was in a state of emotional shock and the only things that would help her out of that were time and talking about what happened. That was entering tricky territory, however. Pushing Stephania too hard too quickly would be just as harmful to her as not talking about what had happened at all. Hutton knew that she couldn't be her daughter's psychiatrist and had already arranged for one of her colleagues at St. Luke's to be her therapist so she could focus on being her mother.

"None of this is your fault, Steph. None of it."

"Mom, if only I hadn't been so blind!" the teen insisted, shaking her head. "How couldn't I tell that Cory and the stalker was the same guy?"

"Steph, I talked to him face to face at least twice yesterday," Hutton responded, "and I didn't realize he was the same guy either. First of all, the first time either of us saw him we weren't trying to remember his face and things were happening very quickly with a lot of distractions. For me, I was at a busy garden market where there were a lot of people milling about and I was trying to keep at much distance between myself and that creep as possible. You were busy with Wind Dancer and had a huge scare when he tried to abduct you. It's not unusual that we didn't recall specific traits about him that would have helped us recognize him yesterday. Those traits that we did notice were the ones he altered—like his hair color and style, and shaving his beard off, dressing differently. It doesn't take changing a lot to distract someone from recognizing him. That's why eyewitness testimony in court isn't as strong of evidence as most people think. The eye can trick the mind and vice versa. So don't blame yourself for being tricked."

"How is Uncle Justin?" Stephania asked, seeming to just remember watching him being shot, holding a shirt against his bleeding chest. "Oh, Mom, if I hadn't gone to the stable with Cory Uncle Justin wouldn't have gotten shot! And the other man—Joe! Is Joe dead?" She began to weep.

Hutton had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from crying with her. Instead she pulled her daughter into a hug, stroking her hair and murmuring softly in an attempt to soothe her.

"It's okay, Steph, shh…it's okay. Justin had surgery to remove the bullet and stop his bleeding. He did very well during it. He's weak and has to be monitored quite closely so he's in the intensive care unit but so far he's doing well and there don't appear to be any complications to be concerned about. If he continues to do well he'll be alright. His prognosis is very good. The man you called Joe…well, Joe is his middle name. His first name is Daniel. He did well in surgery, too, and his status has improved to critical but stable. He should recover as well."

"Dr. House must hate me for what happened to Uncle Justin," she whimpered into her mother's shoulder.

"Not at all, honey. In fact, he was very concerned about you when I talked with him last night. He doesn't blame you and nobody else does, either. It's not your fault what happened. Please believe me. House said that he wants to come by to see you today if you're feeling up to it. If you're not, that's okay; he can visit another day. Gage was here earlier but he had patient appointments today so he had to leave before you woke up. He doesn't blame you either. Auntie Linda went home to get some sleep—you know how she gets sick if she gets too tired—but she'll be back later this morning. Dr. Roth would like to visit you later, too, if it's okay with you. Everybody loves you very much, Steph and they just want you to get better. Oh, and David told me to tell you that when you get home from the hospital he'll let you choose the shows on TV that you like on his nights as well as your own for a week."

Stephania, settling down, giggled a little at that. "The little turd…that's kinda nice, I guess."

There was a knock on the door and it opened slightly and Stephania's nurse Bethany poked her head in. "Hi."

"Come in," Hutton told her, gently breaking the embrace with her child.

Bethany did so, carrying a small paper cup and a pitcher of fresh water. "Time for your meds, Stephania. Are you in pain? You're due for your next dose if you need it."

The teenager simply nodded, withdrawing into herself a little with the presence of a stranger. Bethany removed the glass that also served as a lid to the pitcher and poured some water into it then offered it to her along with the paper cup.

"It's Ativan point-five and two T-threes as ordered by Dr. Jakes," she informed both Hutton and Stephania. Jakes was the attending currently in charge of her care. "Stephania, after you've taken your meds I need to check on your dressings and change them if they need it."

"Would you like me to step out?" Hutton offered but her daughter answered that by grabbing her hand and holding it with a vice grip. Her eyes pleaded with her mother to stay. This wasn't lost on the nurse.

"No, it's fine if you stay, especially if you want her to, Stephania."

The girl nodded. Once her pills were taken Bethany pulled a pair of nitrile gloves out of her pocket and put them on; she checked the dressings on the deep gashes, cuts (a few of which had required stitches), and abrasions (two of them, both of them on her hips, were second degree in severity).

"I need to change most of these," Bethany announced with a kind smile for her patient. "I'll be back in a bit to do that."

"Thanks," Hutton told her as the nurse left the room. She turned to her daughter and lovingly brushed some stray strands of her hair into place. "Honey, are you feeling up to answering one question I have?" The psychiatrist had many questions, but they could wait until sometime down the road when Stephania was stronger.

A look of wariness came over the teen and she seemed to shrink back a little but she nodded. "I'll try."

Hutton knew she had to be careful. "Last night you wouldn't tell the police who killed Cory. I promise that no matter what you tell me it won't change my feelings for you one little bit. I promise than no one will get into trouble. Cory was threatening your life and nearly killed two others and the law allows for killing someone in self-defense. Could you tell me who did it?"

Biting her lip hard, tears appeared in Stephania's eyes and she began to tremble a little. Her grip on Hutton's hand tightened to the point where it was starting to hurt but she ignored it, patiently waiting.

"I'm afraid to say it." The girl's voice was barely audible.

That wasn't surprising. The psychiatrist nodded, acknowledging and validating her fear. "How about I say a few names and when I say the name of the person who did it, you squeeze my hand. Do you think you could do that?"

After a moment, Stephania answered with a whispered yes. Hutton smiled gently and then began.

"Daniel."

No squeeze was felt. Hutton moved on.

"Justin."

No squeeze. Hutton forced herself not to flinch at that and to control her voice.

"Stephania."

The girl closed her eyes and a tear ran down her cheek, followed quickly by several others. After what seemed like an eternity she squeezed once, almost imperceptibly. Hutton sighed internally and nodded. She pulled Stephania back into another embrace and held her close. Her daughter broke down crying again. Hutton rubbed her back, crying with her.

**(~*~)**

His team was waiting for him, seated in chairs in front of his desk when he arrived at his office. House looked at their curious, expectant faces and almost smiled, reminded of Chase, Foreman and Cameron sitting around the table in the differential room back at PPTH early into their fellowships. Their naïveté and carefully hidden excitement had amused him, though he had never let them know why. They had looked at him like some kind of genius who could mysteriously imbue them with skills and insight in three years what had taken him many more than that to develop and hone in himself. One thing he'd tried to get through to them was the need to see things as they were, not as they wanted or had been taught to believe they were. He'd tried to change their paradigm, to teach them to think laterally as well as linearly and to temper the rules and patterns of science with their instinct. There were always exceptions to the rule, and rules were guidelines, not inviolable forces. Sometimes they really were meant to be broken. Though their average age was older this team mirrored the other one quite closely.

A white board had been set up behind House's desk. Each of them had folders with copies of the patient file.

"'Morning," House said to them and then went to the white board. "Tell me about our patient."

"You haven't read the file yet, Dr. House?" Dr. Preston, the epidemiologist, asked, frowning ever-so-slightly.

"Why would I do that when I have you to do that for me?" House asked, rolling his eyes. Of course he'd read it—what he was interested in knowing was whether or not his team members had read it and what they'd picked out as significant. Nine times out of ten most doctors picked out the blatantly obvious and failed to dig deeper than what was on the surface. "Somebody, talk! She isn't getting any better by us sitting around staring at each other."

Dr. Ferry looked up from her file. "Patricia Moore, twenty-six, Caucasian, married with no children. She works as a paralegal in Camden, her husband Trevor, twenty-nine, works in the district attorney's office. She has no history of neurological disease or disorders herself or on either side of her family. Great-grandmother died from metastatic breast and liver cancers. Neither parent has experienced any serious illnesses, neither has her younger brother nor sister. Other than for the seasonal flu, the odd cold, mumps and measles, Mrs. Moore has had no infectious diseases. She had all of her immunizations as a child and had a tetanus booster last February after stepping on a piece of old, broken beer bottle in her backyard and receiving a deep puncture wound. She's of average height and weight for her age and build, is a runner, plays tennis and golf, and fishes. No allergies listed in her history, either.

"She showed up at the Camden General emergency department ten days ago complaining about dizziness, a transient earache on her left side, and pins-and-needles-like paresthesias in her distal extremities. Physical examination showed no abnormalities except for a slightly elevated blood pressure of 128 over sixty-nine and slight indication of irritation in the ear canal anterior to the tympanic membrane. A CBC count and standard urinalysis was done. CBC came back with an elevated WBC count. She was also moderately dehydrated and consequently given one unit of saline. One hour later the paresthesias was no longer being experienced but the dizziness remained. The ER resident wrote her a script for amoxicillin, told her to take ibuprofen for the pain and sent her home with a diagnosis of an ear infection."

House wrote down on the left side of the white board 'transient paresthesias—distal extremities; dizziness; ↑ WBC; ↑ B.P., dehydration.'

"Three days later she was brought back to the ER in an ambulance unconscious after collapsing at work. She had complained about severe pain in the back of her neck, difficulty holding her head up and just before she collapsed she said something about her head feeling 'funny'. In the emergency room she suffered three seizures of the temporal _and_ limbic lobes. When she awoke she described experiencing different tastes in her mouth with different spoken sounds. In one case she said that the words 'home' and 'horse' tasted salty like buttered popcorn. The words 'air' and 'tarry' tasted like cotton candy."

"Lexical-Gustatory synesthesia, like other forms of synesthesia, have been associated with brain damage caused by stroke or tumors in the limbic region of the brain," Dr. Norma Bell spoke up; being the oncologist on his team House wasn't surprised to hear the suggestion of a tumor come from her. "Distal extremity paresthesias are sometimes associated with similar damage to the temporal lobe."

House had added to the list: 'Loss of consciousness; severe neck pain, asthenia; temporal/limbic seizures x 3; synesthesia.' On the right side of the board he wrote down: 'stroke; brain tumor; infection.'

"What else?" the diagnostician demanded.

"Those symptoms can be caused by lesions on the brain, viral or bacterial meningitis, infectious meningitis—" Preston began to say.

"Uh, uh," Ferry spoke up, cutting him off. "CBC count done upon admission to St. Luke's showed only a slightly elevated WBC count, nothing significant enough to indicate an infection on the scale of encephalitic or meningeal infection."

"Not to mention the lack of fever," Bell added, looking from the epidemiologist to her boss. "Her last temperature reading sat at 99 degrees. Also, synesthesia is not a symptom of infectious meningitis or encephalitis."

"Depending upon her ICP*, an elevation combined with everything but the synesthesia could be accounted for by aseptic meningitis or encephalitis," Preston insisted.

"Has the patient complained about headaches or other forms of head pain other than the sore neck prior to or concurrent with the other symptoms?" House asked, scribbling down the differential diagnoses before looking at his doctors in turn.

"Nothing in the history from Camden or in her admission information taken here," Bell answered, glancing at her co-workers for support or insight.

"The patient is currently in and out of consciousness. I take it that it would be silly of me to ask if any of you happened to have, oh, _asked_ her while she was awake?" House inquired, sounding slightly sarcastic.

"If she were in pain, wouldn't she tell us, or wouldn't it be obvious to an observer if she was?" Ferry responded, raising an eyebrow and tapping her file folder with a perfectly manicured fingernail. "She didn't appear to be in pain when I saw her and there was no mention of it in her chart."

"Again," House repeated himself after rolling his eyes, "did anyone ask the question? There are two truths I never want you to forget: people are idiots and _everybody_ lies—especially patients and their families. Some people have high pain tolerance and therefore wouldn't express pain as obviously as others in their appearance or behavior—if they even believed that it was relevant to begin with. Others abide by some ridiculous stoicism that leads them to believe that talking about or expressing pain is unnecessary or undesirable. Both meningitis and encephalitis present with head pain. If it's aseptic there is still a root cause.

"Other possible diagnoses?"

"Autoimmune," Ferry suggested. "Lupus—"

House rolled his eyes, "Besides Lupus?" Ferry appeared to be taken aback by his immediate dismissal of her suggestion.

Preston sighed. "Well, dizziness, syncope, and paresthesias fit M.S. but generally not synesthesia."

"Multiple Sclerosis in more advanced stages involves certain neuropsychiatric symptoms like depression, manic-depression, paranoia, or the uncontrollable need to laugh or cry…there's nothing in her file to indicate any of this," Ferry responded, shaking her head.

"Well, if we stick to autoimmune it could be Paraneoplastic syndrome," Bell told them all. "A tumor anywhere in the body could trigger it, particularly one in the brain considering what the patient is presenting. A limbic or temporal mass could trigger the syndrome and result in aseptic meningitis or encephalitis which could account for the paresthesias, syncope, dizziness, neck pain, seizures—a mass could theoretically trigger synesthesia as well."

House listened in silence as his team bandied their theories back and forth. He erased what was on the right side of the white board and rewrote: 'infectious meningitis/encephalitis; aseptic men/enceph; autoimmune—MS; autoimmune—lupus (not!); autoimmune—Paraneoplastic men/enceph; limbic/temporal mass.' He then sat down behind his desk, wincing slightly from the pain in his thigh. He ignored the curious glances in his direction as a result, not in the mood to explain.

"Bell," House said, beginning to instruct his team on their next steps. "Book an MRI of her head and a PET-CT. Let's determine if there is inflammation and if so, how much and if there are any masses or lesions visible. I also want an EEG. Be there when it's done—better yet, do it yourself. I don't trust the skill of a community-college diploma holder with running sensitive diagnostic technology. Preston, run another full blood work-up, tox screen, anti-NMDA receptor antibody screen, infectious agent profile and Chem-20. If the scans pick up inflammation but the labs comeback without definitive indications of infection I'll consider running an L.P. Ferry—talk to the patient and her family again. Get a decent history and ask her if she's in _pain_ this time. Remember, everybody—"

"Lies," Ferry finished for him, shaking her head in dismay. "You have a very pessimistic perception of people, Dr. House."

"And if I want to be psychoanalyzed I won't be running to you," House snarked, staring at her intensely. "Get moving, all of you."

"Why imaging of her head only?" Bell inquired. "Wouldn't it save us time to do a full-body—"

"No," the diagnostician answered simply, not feeling it necessary to give her an explanation. It amazed him how willing other doctors were to tie up imaging scanners with full body scans that pumped full-body radiation into the patient without reason to believe that it was necessary. They could go back and MRI the rest of her body later if it was necessary. The oncologist gave him a baffled look but shrugged and didn't argue.

"And you'll be doing…what exactly?" Preston was glowering at him. House smirked back at him, blue eyes sparkling defiantly.

"I'll be in the ICU necking with my boyfriend, that's what."

His frown deepening disapprovingly, the epidemiologist turned on his heel and was the first one out of the room. Ferry was on his tail and Bell barely hid an amused smirk as she left the office last.

House exhaled and allowed himself a smile; it felt _good_ to be back in the game, to actually feel useful for something again.

**(~*~)**

Wilson's father met his middle son and chaperone at the Philadelphia International Airport. Neither man had checked any luggage, carrying everything they needed for the next two or three days in their carry-ons. That made getting through arrivals easier and they didn't have to wait forever in the baggage area. As soon as Wilson Sr. saw his son he hugged him tightly, which was actually a bit of a surprise for Wilson; he was able to count on one hand the number of times he remembered his father embracing him like that. He actually stiffened a little but if his father had noticed he didn't let on.

"Dad, this is Alex Cryer, the therapist you spoke to on the phone yesterday," the oncologist said in introduction. "He's my chaperone while I'm here."

Mr. Wilson shook Alex's hand. "How do you do?"

The psychologist smiled pleasantly. "Very well, thank you. It's very nice to meet you."

"Likewise," was the less than enthusiastic response. "Well, your mother is at the hospital with Daniel. He woke up this morning for the first time since coming out of surgery. They had a tube down his throat when I left but the nurse said it was possible that might come out today if his doctor cleared it. Something about his blood oxygen being high enough? I don't know—you're the doctor, James. I'm certain it makes sense to you."

They were walking through the terminal toward the exit, now. Wilson refrained from sighing. He felt very much on edge—not that that was all that surprising. His younger brother was in intensive care after emergency surgery to remove a bullet from his bowel and patch him up, after all. That wasn't the only reason, though. There were at least two more, both of which had been plaguing him with anxiety the entire flight over.

Firstly, Wilson loved his father, but a part of him hated him at the same time. He was finding it hard to forgive the man for never being there for his mother, brothers and him growing up. It would have been hard enough on the family dealing with his mother's depression and valium addiction, David's selfishness and criminality and Danny's schizophrenia if his father had worked a nine to five job and came home every night after work; the fact that his father insisted on being a travelling salesman and being gone from home the majority of the time had made things at home nearly untenable. His mother's inability to care for her family and his older brother's unwillingness to act as a member of the family had left a lot of the burden on Wilson's shoulder's to bear alone. It had cost him his childhood. He'd been forced into the role of an adult long before he was cognitively and emotionally ready.

Secondly, he knew that he would run into House during this trip; if it didn't happen by chance Wilson knew that he would be compulsively drawn to seek him out. Though it had only been a little over a month since he'd seen the diagnostician last to Wilson it had felt like an eternity. He'd pushed House away for House's own good, but that was before he was getting help; Wilson was now in treatment and had every intention of continuing intensive group and individualized therapy after this inpatient phase of rehab was over. His motivation was to improve himself, to break free of the shackles of alcohol and psychic bondage but equally so was his desire to be reunited with House and somehow win him back.

At first he'd been willing to accept simply being friends with the older man again but now that he was there in Philadelphia, so close to House again, he knew that he wanted—needed—more. Somehow, someday, he and House would be together. He knew it and nothing else would be enough for Wilson. He was in love with House and always would be and refused to grow old without him as his partner. Wilson expected House to be resistant at first, especially if he was currently seeing someone else. It could very well take him quite a bit of time and effort to woo House back, but after years of avoiding his feelings for the diagnostician he was now no longer satisfied with having to deny them again.

"But the doctor did say that Danny was going to be okay?" Wilson pressed his father a tad impatiently.

"He said that if Danny continued to remain stable and recover at the same rate as he currently is he should make a full recovery," the senior Wilson assured him. "They know about his meds, so he's still receiving them while in the hospital and his group home knows about his hospitalization so they're holding his spot for him. Maybe when we get to the hospital you can persuade your mother to go back to our hotel to get some sleep. She doesn't do so well if her sleep pattern is disturbed for too long—"

"I know, Dad," Wilson assured him, working hard to keep the bitter edge out of his words. He knew better than his father ever had and ever would. Growing up his mother's month-long bouts with insomnia were caused to a greater extent by disturbances in her sleep pattern. Her mood had worsened the longer she went without real sleep and as a result she had dived head first into her pill bottle for relief from her own personal hell. During such spells it had been Wilson's responsibility to care for both her and Danny when his father was away. No one had to tell him about his mother's absolute need for consistency.

"I'll talk to her," Wilson promised him as they reached the car, put their carry-ons into the trunk and then climbed inside, Wilson sitting shotgun and Alex sitting in the backseat behind his father.

They didn't talk much on the drive to St. Luke's. Wilson asked a few more questions about Danny's condition, none of which were answered to his satisfaction—not that he could really blame his father for that. Mr. Wilson questioned the younger men about trivialities like the weather in Houston and how their Fourth of July went. The oncologist hadn't expected much more from his father; the man never had shown any real interest in him at the best of times so there was no reason for him to do so now.

When they were about five minutes away from the hospital his father changed the subject with a serious question.

"James, did you know that Gregory was homosexual?"

Wilson swallowed his own saliva wrong, the question had caught him so off guard, and began to cough and sputter. After a moment he was able to breathe reasonably well enough to be able to speak to that. He glanced back at Alex with a questioning look, silently asking, _Should I tell him about me?_ Alex simply shrugged and returned a look that Wilson interpreted as meaning, '_That's up to you.'_

Clearing his throat Wilson replied, "Uh, I believe the term you're looking for is bisexual, Dad, and yes, I do know that. Why do you bring it up?"

The senior Wilson in the car hesitated a moment and then sighed. "James, you've been his friend for a very long time and you have always been close to each other. In fact, didn't he live with you for a while not too long ago? Anyway, it got me to thinking…maybe I shouldn't ask you this until we're alone but since Alex is your therapist I figure it's okay…James, were you and Gregory ever, well, uh, um…"

"Were we ever lovers, Dad?" Wilson finished for him knowingly. He was tired of pretending. "No…but almost. Dad, I'm…bisexual, too. And I fell in love with Greg but my own personal problems and my drinking prevented anything from really happening between us. I hope that once I get myself firmly on the right track that perhaps we can pick up where we left off—only, both of us in a much better place in our lives."

He waited tensely, wondering what his father's reaction was going to be to his confession. Wilson knew his father had quite the temper and when it flared, watch out! Mr. Wilson sat silently for a minute or so, thinking over this news. Wilson almost made the comment that he could smell wood burning but wisely kept his mouth shut. He glanced back at Alex for reassurance but all he saw was the side and back of the therapist's head as he looked out the window. Wilson sighed silently and returned his eyes to the road in front of them.

"Are you happy?"

The question caught Wilson by surprise and he nearly got whiplash turning his head to look at his father.

"Uh…you mean, as a bisexual? Well…sure, I guess…it feels good admitting it to myself and others after hiding it for most of my adult life. It's a relief, really…How are you with the knowledge?"

"I don't know," was the sullen answer, "but I do know that the idea doesn't bother me as much as I thought it would. I mean, it's not like you're converting to Christianity or anything…you know, I have another relative who liked both guys and gals. He's a pretty good guy, I guess…but you're my son. I guess I have to think on it a bit longer."

Wilson allowed himself a small smile. It wasn't the full acceptance that he had hoped for but it wasn't as negative a response as he could have imagined, either. It was honest, and it was difficult to resent the man for being honest.

"Well, no matter how long you think about it, Dad, I am bisexual and that's not going to change," the oncologist announced. "I won't apologize for it or change my plans and the way I live if you decide that you're opposed to it. I hope you can be understanding and accept me for who I am but I refuse to put my life on hold if you don't."

His father didn't comment and Wilson wasn't about to push the subject. He was out, he'd told his father the truth and he was determined to be proud of who he was. He had to—shame and denial had led him to his point of no return, of hitting rock bottom. There was no way he was going back to that.

When they were finally at St. Luke's and arrived at the ICU waiting lounge his mother was seated talking to a couple of men he wasn't familiar with.

His mother looked up to see him approaching and rose to her feet, hurrying to him to greet him with a tight embrace.

"Oh, James!" she said and began to weep. Wilson held her; he hated it when she cried. He'd heard so much of her crying growing up. She had hid in her bedroom, thinking that her children couldn't hear her in there but Wilson had and it had both torn his heart to know she was so sad and infuriated him that most of that sadness was caused by his father travelling so much and leaving her lonely with three active boys to raise virtually on her own. He'd never blamed her for her Valium addiction—not really. It had been the only way she had known to cope; her husband should have been there to notice that she was depressed and needed to be in a doctor's care but he hadn't been thus she had done her best to treat her depression on her own.

"It's okay, Mom," he told her gently, rubbing her back a little. "Danny will be okay."

"I've been worried about you, too," she told him. Wilson felt a pang of guilt for that. At her age she shouldn't have had to worry about her adult son.

"I'm doing fine, Mom," Wilson assured her, producing a brave smile for her. "Which reminds me," he gently pulled away from her to introduce his travelling companion to her. "Mom, this is Alex Cryer. He's one of the members of my treatment team at Silver Springs. He's here to help me through any difficulties I may encounter while I'm here in Philadelphia. Alex, this is my mother."

"Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Wilson," the therapist told her with a nod. "James is right. He's doing very well. I promise you that we're taking good care of him."

"Good," she said, relaxing a little. "James, let me introduce you to a couple of people." She motioned to the two strangers she had been talking with when he'd arrived. "This is Dr. Roth and he's the chief administrator of this hospital." The hulk of a man she was referring to stood up and extended a hand to him.

"How do you do, Dr. Wilson," Roth said to him with a pleasant smile. Wilson returned the smile and shook his hand.

"Hello, nice to meet you."

"This other gentlemen is Dr. Fowler, Daniel's doctor," Mrs. Wilson told her son.

"I'm the internal medicine attending in charge of your brother's care. We were just about to update her on your brother's current status when you arrived."

"I'm an M.D., Dr. Fowler," Wilson informed him, "so feel free to speak candidly. How is my brother doing?"

"Let's sit and discuss it," Fowler suggested. Wilson joined his mother and the two St. Luke's doctors in sitting.

"Daniel is doing very well, all things considered," Fowler continued. "He suffered a gunshot injury to his ascending colon and lost a great deal of blood, somewhere around four pints, so he was given fluids in the ambulance and then received plasma and whole blood upon arrival here. He was rushed into emergency trauma surgery where it was found that a three inch portion of the colon was damaged beyond repair and had to be removed. There was also significant damage done to the right colic artery, a section of which had to be replaced with a graft. Since he laid on the floor of a horse stall for at least an hour we're concerned of the possibility of infection so he's being given prophylactic immune support and so far we haven't had any indications of an infection so that's an excellent sign. He is still very weak and his periods of waking are still fairly short but his blood pressure, heart rate and blood oxygen levels are excellent. In fact, I've received the respiratory therapist's approval for his endotracheal tube to be removed later this afternoon if his condition continues to remain stable and improving."

"What's being done about pain management?" Wilson asked.

"He's currently doing well on Ionsys so we're going to keep him on that for now and reassess this evening," Fowler told him.

"What's Ionsys?" Mr. Wilson asked from where he was seated next to his wife.

"It's an iontophoretic transdermal fentanyl patch," Wilson said to his father. "Fentanyl is a strong opiod pain reliever similar to morphine. In this case, a skin patch containing Fentanyl is placed on Danny's body and he receives a constant, measured dose of fentanyl through his skin that manages his pain. This particular kind of patch is used to treat post-operative pain over the short term."

His father looked to Fowler for confirmation of the accuracy of what his son had told him, which irked Wilson greatly. He used to work at a cutting edge hospital as the chief of oncology and was known as one of the nation's preeminent experts on cancer treatment and yet his father still doubted his ability to know what he was talking about. He wasn't surprised by the slight, just infuriated by it, as always. Fowler gave Wilson sr. a nod and then cast Wilson an apologetic, understanding look.

"Dr. Roth was visiting the other man shot at the same time Daniel was. He's a doctor here, a surgeon," his mother told him.

"Gregory's boyfriend," Mr. Wilson added quietly to his son. "He was shot in the chest."

_Boyfriend_, Wilson thought with an instant surge of jealousy. _Damn_. The jealousy was fairly short-lived, replaced by concern for House and the fear and pain the diagnostician had to have been feeling.

"Anyway, when Dr. Roth saw me he came by to say hello and asked me if there was anything he could do to make our experience here a little easier. Isn't that nice?"

"Yes," Wilson replied, glancing at Roth gratefully, "very nice. Thank you, doctor."

"It's nothing at all," the chief administrator told him, rising to his feet. "I sat in on a lecture you gave at the American Cancer Society conference last winter, Dr. Wilson. Perhaps, if you have time during your stay here in Philadelphia, we could meet over coffee to discuss the protocol? I was very impressed with the drug trial program you were conducting at Princeton-Plainsboro. Promising work, indeed."

"Thank you, Doctor. I would like that," Wilson told him stiffly but didn't say anything more than that. He knew how news spread along interhospital grapevines and was certain that St. Luke's chief administrator had already caught wind of what had happened between him and his last employer; it made him feel extremely self-conscious and ashamed.

"Great. I'll have my P.A. contact you to make the arrangement. She knows what I'm doing with my day better than I do."

Both Wilson and Fowler chuckled at that.

Roth stood up and extended a hand to Wilson's parents again. "It was nice to meet you—and please, if have any questions or needs that I can assist you with let any member of the staff know and they'll get the message to me."

"Thank you," Mr. Wilson told him with a nod. Wilson's mother smiled warmly. Roth strode away to his next act of business.

"Can I go in to see him now?" Wilson asked Fowler, anxious to see Danny and be personally reassured that his brother was, in fact, still alive.

"Yes," Fowler told him with a nod. "I do ask that you continue to respect the two person limit in the room with him at any particular time, though."

"Of course," Wilson told him, standing at the same time as the internist. "Thank you."

Fowler nodded, gave a curt wave to Wilson's patients and then left to tend to his other patients.

"Well, I'm going to go in to see him, now," Wilson announced, sighing.

"Fine," Mrs. Wilson told him. "You're father and I are going to go to the cafeteria for a little while. Can we bring you or Alex back something?"

"Oh, nothing for me, thanks," Alex told them with a smile.

"Me neither," Wilson told her. He watched his parents head for the elevator then turned to Alex. "Coming in?"

"If you want me to," Alex replied with a shrug. Wilson nodded, indicating that he did.

The two of them walked into Danny's room. He was currently asleep; the ventilator was breathing one out of every five breaths for him. Wilson glanced up at the monitors, taking in the readings, all of which seemed to confirm what Fowler had just told him. He went to the bed and sat down on the edge of it, looking down at his brother.

Danny's hair was sticking up in every direction and there were a couple of creases on his forehead that Wilson couldn't remember seeing the last time he and his younger brother had been in the same room together but otherwise he'd changed very little from the way he had looked like as a young teen, especially while he slept. Although he had never been able to see the resemblance that existed between them he knew that it had to be there—everyone who had ever seen the both of them had commented to that effect. Wilson smiled softly, his eyes filled with affection. Knowing that Danny's condition was good and that barring any major complications he would make a full recovery allowed Wilson to breathe a little easier.

He brushed Danny's hair out of his eyes and tried to gently smoothen it on his head. It felt so good to touch his brother and confirm in his own mind that he really was alive and there before him, not dead or lost somewhere on the streets being completely consumed by the insanity of untreated schizophrenia. For Wilson it meant no more trips out to the back alleys and seedy streets of Princeton and Trenton in search of Danny. Knowing that instead Danny was responding well to his medication and functioning highly outside of a hospital was more than Wilson had ever expected to see, he had to admit. Now the nightmares about his little brother could cease and the only ones he would have to deal with anymore were those of him losing House for the rest of his life.

"You love your brother very much," Alex observed, whispering. Wilson looked toward his therapist and nodded.

"The two most important people in the world to me are Danny and House. At least I have Danny back."

_And I'll win House back, too, if it's the last thing I ever do—boyfriend or no boyfriend,_ he thought to himself determinedly. Failure wasn't an option—Wilson knew that he would make House fall in love with him again, somehow. The impossible had happened with Danny's life so the oncologist knew that being with House someday, though seemingly impossible, would happen as well. There was no doubt about it in his mind or heart. _That boyfriend had better enjoy his time with House now, because his days in House's life are numbered!_

**(~*~)**

House is startled awake by the gentle shaking of his shoulder. He looks first to Clee, but his lover is still asleep in the hospital bed and the diagnostician was still holding one of his hands from where he sat beside him.

"What?" House mumbled sourly, trying to get his bearings. An LPN stood beside him, a truly apologetic expression on her face.

"I'm sorry to have to wake you, Dr. House, but Dr. Bell just paged you concerning your patient. She insisted it was urgent."

"Which probably means it's not," he grumbled tiredly and was about to get up when the nurse said, "Should I tell her that you can't be disturbed?"

Looking a little surprised at the question, and as tempted as he was to run with that he didn't, shaking his head. "No, I'll respond at the nursing station." He rose stiffly to his feet, obviously favoring his ruined thigh.

"I was just about to go on my break," the LPN whose badge read 'Frieda' told him. "I don't mind sitting with Dr. Clee while you're gone; that way if he wakes up before you return he won't find himself all alone."

House scowled at her briefly as he tried to figure out what her angle was but then shrugged and nodded. He reminded himself that not everyone had sinister ulterior motives. As he did the words sounded in his brain like Hutton's.

"Fine," he told her with what he hoped was an appreciative nod and then left the room, shutting the door quietly. He looked up in the direction of the nursing station when he saw two men walk out of Danny's room. His heart skipped a couple a beats when he saw that one of them was Wilson. Of course—Wilson had actually flown from treatment in Texas to be with his beloved younger brother. While it shouldn't have surprised House at all but it had. He hadn't thought that the rehabilitation hospital Wilson had checked himself into would have allowed him to leave partway through the program even if his brother was injured and close to dying.

Wilson didn't notice House right away; the younger man's back was turned and he was speaking with his companion, who just happened to be quite handsome. House felt a twinge of jealousy and quickly tamped it down, angry at himself. There was no reason to believe that there was anything romantic between the oncologist and the other man and besides, House was over him and in love with Clee, so he had no right to be jealous. But he was—and that fact caused him a great deal of guilt. He was thinking about ducking back into Clee's room when the unknown man with Wilson caught sight of him over Wilson's shoulder and their eyes met briefly. It was long enough for Wilson to notice; he turned around to see what his companion was staring at and froze when he saw that it was House.

House's eyes now locked onto Wilson's seemingly on their own. _Damnit!_ he thought, and tried to look away from those hypnotic brown orbs that passed as Wilson's eyes but found that he couldn't. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears and wished he could just run away and hide. Why did looking at Wilson still have this effect on him? Wilson had rejected _him_, pushed _him_ away and had broken _his_ heart—by rights he should have hated him. The mere sight of the younger man should have disgusted House—repulsed him, even—but it didn't. He felt quite the contrary, in fact, and that alone caused him to loathe himself. The last thing House wanted to do was to admit that he was still in love with James Evan Wilson—but he was. _Shit._

When Wilson smiled at him, House knew he was sunk. He cursed himself and called himself an asshole, a bastard, a fucking creep that didn't deserve someone like Justin Clee's love.

"House, hey," Wilson said and suddenly House realized that the oncologist had closed the distance between them and he hadn't even noticed.

The older man forced a look of impassivity on his face. "Wilson. Come to visit Danny?" House almost cringed. What an incredibly stupid question to ask! _Of course_ he was here to visit Danny! He was Wilson—where else would he be if he could possibly help it? So much for playing it cool.

If Wilson knew how flustered he was, he didn't let on. In fact, the oncologist seemed a little distracted himself. House could smell his fruity-scented shampoo and was nearly overwhelmed by it. Wilson was standing too damned close…he always stood very close.

"Yes," was the reply. "Uh, my parents called me—they said that you were the one to contact them about Danny rather than leaving it to the clerk in the ER. Thank you for that."

House shrugged nonchalantly. "I think your boyfriend is getting jealous. He's giving me the evil eye."

"Oh—you mean Alex?" Wilson turned his head to look behind him and then turned back to face House. He chuckled in amusement, shaking his head. "He's not my boyfriend, House. He's my therapist. I don't know if my parents have told you, but…well, shortly after our last conversation, uh, I signed myself into a rehabilitation hospital in Houston, Texas. Part of the conditions of allowing me to leave mid-treatment was that I take a chaperone with me—you know, to keep me from finding some bar and going on a bender. Alcoholics have been known to do that, after all."

"So now you're willing to admit it?" House asked, suddenly feeling hurt and bitterness well up inside him, threatening to choke him. "You couldn't do that a month ago, maybe before you told me that we were no longer friends and that you never wanted to see me again?"

Wilson suddenly frowned, but it was from sadness and…was that? It was. It was guilt.

"House, about that, I'm so sorry—"

"Save it," House said harshly, trying to allow his anger to overwhelm his softer feelings for the man in front of him. "It's too late for that. I was paged by a member of my team."

With that the diagnostician forced himself to look away from Wilson and limp past him as he made his way to the nursing station. If he swallowed once, he swallowed a dozen times and tried to ignore the fact that he could feel Wilson's gaze boring into his back.

_I love Justin,_ he reminded himself harshly. _I want Justin. Justin loves me and I love him! Wilson can go to hell. Wilson can take a long walk off of a short pier. He can—_

"I was paged?" House said to the nurse at the desk. She looked up at him and smiled pleasantly and nodded, handing him the phone.

"Yes. Extension 582, Doctor."

He called the extension, forcing thoughts of Wilson from his mind as much as he possibly could. The line was picked up on the other end and all he could hear was the sound of an alarm going off in the background.

"This is House," he said briskly. "What's happening?"

"Bell, here," was the answer. She sounded winded but otherwise composed. The alarm stopped whining. "Mrs. Moore went into vfib. She was defibrillated and her heart beat returned to a normal sinus rhythm but her temperature is hovering around one-oh-five-point-five and she's tachycardic again. We have her wrapped in cooling blankets to bring her temperature down but before we were able to get them onto her she suffered a febrile seizure. We were able to treat that but her condition is still touch and go. The patient's husband wants to speak to you directly."

House scowled, pondering the new symptoms and how they related—or rather, didn't relate—to the previous ones his patient has presented with. He didn't give a damn about what the patient's husband wanted.

"Are the results of the Chem-20 panel back?" he demanded.

"Not yet," Bell told him. "If not for her other symptoms, I would think that she was experiencing a thyroid storm."

House was thinking the same thing. He wasn't certain how all of the pieces were associated or even if they were, but this most recent cluster of symptoms were almost classically a thyroid storm.

"Get down to the lab. Get them to rush the panel. I specifically want to know what her blood calcium and cholesterol levels are. Also have them measure her thyroid levels and then notify me stat. In the meantime get that fever down. Another seizure will only throw any blood chemistry testing out the window."

"Right, I'm on it," she told him and then hung up. House did the same. He stood there for a few minutes longer, considering what they knew so far.

He turned around and saw that Wilson was standing only a foot or so away again. House groaned silently. Why was he doing this? Why couldn't Wilson just leave him alone, go back to Houston and live his own life? Things were so much clearer and simpler when he didn't have to face the object of his unresolved emotions and he could focus solely on Clee and their future together.

"Can we please talk?" Wilson asked him, those beautiful eyes looking at him pleadingly. It wasn't fair.

"We have nothing to talk about," House told him stubbornly. "I'm seeing someone. I've moved on."

"I've heard. Look, I'm only asking for ten minutes over a cup of coffee," Wilson insisted. "Damnit, House. I only said those things to you because I knew I was messed up and you would be better off without me while I was in that condition. I never stopped loving you and it was the hardest thing—"

"We're not talking about this," the diagnostician told him, his eyes flashing threateningly. "And especially not in front of the rest of the hospital staff."

"The cafeteria then," Wilson retorted. "Just you and me, private yet in a public place. I'm buying."

"Of course you are," House said without thinking and then bit down on his lip, drawing blood. "If I give you ten minutes, do you promise to leave me alone after that and not bother me again? Just go back to Houston and forget we ever knew each other?"

"Forgetting that we know each other will be hard considering we've been friends for twenty years," Wilson told him.

"_Were_ friends," House interrupted. "You made certain of that."

Sighing, the oncologist nodded and put up his hands slightly as if surrendering the point and trying to make appeasement. "Fine; if after talking with me you still want that, then I'll do it. Please?"

House wasn't used to seeing Wilson so insistent and confident; it used to be that Wilson would eventually get fed up, stop begging and walk away. Something had changed and it wasn't entirely unattractive. House relented; he knew it was probably foolish of him to do so, but he couldn't resist—his curiosity had been piqued.

"Fine," House told him. "But you're buying and that includes pie."

Wilson smiled from ear to ear. House saw a touch of smugness but for the most part the oncologist looked genuinely pleased and relieved. It took everything he had not to smile in return. Wilson looked to Alex and nodded. The therapist looked concern but simply nodded in acknowledgement and went to sit and wait in the ICU waiting lounge.

House told the nursing desk to page him should anything change with Clee and then walked beside Wilson to the elevators, keeping more than the width of another person between him and his former best friend the entire way.


	52. Chapter 52 Part 3 Ch 18

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Eighteen: Monday, July 5, 2010; 1:54 P.M.**

The lunch rush in the cafeteria was over and most of the staff members that had filled the tables an hour and a half earlier were well back into their duties. There were a few tables where staff, patients and guests ate but otherwise it was really quite quiet.

House and Wilson had said very little to each other on their way down to grab coffee, pie, and a table far enough away from the nearest occupied one that they could speak at normal volume and not be overheard. House had only been joking about allowing Wilson to pay for him but the oncologist had gotten to the cashier first and paid for them both. It caused an almost nostalgic feeling in House, even though really, it had only been a few months since the last time he'd had Wilson pay for him. It felt like it had been so much longer than that. The nostalgia dissipated quickly, leaving behind an irritation that House couldn't quite explain. He no longer wanted to further indebt himself to the younger man in any way. That was the old and here—Philadelphia, St Luke's—was the new.

They sat down. House immediately delved into the apple pie and cheese on his plate. Wilson sipped at his very hot coffee, watching House closely. It was a little unnerving to be watched like that but House wasn't going to let on that it was.

"You look great, House," Wilson told him, smiling. "I've never seen you look healthier."

"Country living," House responded sardonically. "Fresh air, well water and lots of sex—nothing better."

"I heard that you're seeing your vascular surgeon," Wilson acknowledged, still smiling pleasantly which only made House suspicious. "Justin, isn't it?"

"He's no longer my doctor," House answered. "That would be unethical along the order of dating one of my dying cancer patients—oops! See what I did there?"

Now it was House's turn to carefully observe him. The smile on Wilson's face faltered a little, and his brown eyes lost some of their happiness. It was enough to stir a hint of guilt in House and he had to look away from him to push that out of his mind. It was so hard sitting there with him. The oncologist looked so good himself. His eyes were clear and his mind sharp. House wanted to grab the hand that held Wilson's coffee cup and that was not a good thing.

"You've only known him for a few weeks," Wilson went on after clearing his throat. "You can't be that serious yet."

"He asked me to move in with him." House looked at his own hands so he didn't see the flash of jealousy Wilson displayed. "I was planning on saying yes; serious enough for you?"

Wilson sat back in his seat and sighed, glancing at House's shoulder before returning his eyes to House's face. On his part, House focused on Wilson's nose.

"I was screwed up, House," Wilson told him plainly.

"Sorry for fucking you up," came the cynical response.

"No, don't do that!" A few pairs of eyes—those belonging to the cafeteria workers cleaning the tables and sweeping the floor—flew to look at him. Wilson reined himself in. House noticed the trembling of the younger man's hands and the way he licked his lips repeatedly. Those lips…House remembered the taste of them fondly.

"House," Wilson began again more quietly, "You didn't fuck me up. That happened years before I even knew you. And yes, I'm a mess. If anything, your friendship has been the thing that has kept me from completely losing it over the years, as ironic as that sounds. You gave me a reason to get up in the morning. That night in New Orleans, when I sat in that jail cell alone…I knew that I would be able to find _someone_ to post bail for me eventually but I didn't really give a damn what happened to me. After receiving those divorce papers I had determined that I was going to get drunk, return to my hotel room and hang myself from the balcony. I got arrested before I could do that, but I hadn't changed my mind. Then you showed up at the police station to bail me out—a total stranger had shown more kindness to me than I had experienced in a very long time and somehow I knew at that moment that you would always be a part of my life."

House took a drink of his coffee as he searched for something to say to that. He was beginning to feel maudlin, and he didn't do maudlin. He remembered that night like it was yesterday. He'd simply gone to the hotel bar for drink after a long, boring, frustrating day of lectures presented by so-called scientists who'd known less about their own specialties than he had. He hadn't been looking for a best friend who he later fell in love with; a good lay, perhaps, but that was all. The moment he saw Wilson sitting at the bar drinking himself stupid House had known that his life would never be the same again.

"Who was being kind?" the diagnostician scoffed. "I was just bo—"

"Bored," Wilson finished with him. "I'll admit that you're not like most people but even you wouldn't part with the amount of cash you had to in order to bail me out just to ease your boredom."

"True. I was also looking for sex. Unfortunately you never could hold your liquor and I ended up tucking you into bed before going back to my room without getting laid."

A look of astonishment bloomed on the oncologist upon hearing that. "Seriously? You wanted to have sex with me that night?"

House shrugged and smirked. "I've always liked pretty girls _and_ boys."

Shaking his head, Wilson smirked as well. "Why didn't you broach the subject the next day?"

"Oh, you were whining over Sam divorcing you and that was a major turn off," was the answer. Of course, that was a lie. House had wanted to but once he'd got talking with the younger man and had realized that he genuinely liked him he could no longer see Wilson as a one night stand; when Wilson hadn't caught on to any of his flirts House had come to the conclusion that his new friend was arrow-straight and had given up on it. He'd decided to focus on the friendship instead and had never regretted that decision, even after he'd realized he'd fallen in love with him.

Wilson bowed his head to hide his smile but not quickly enough to avoid detection.

"What?" House demanded curiously. "What's the smile about?"

After a moment or two of hesitation, the younger man looked back up at him catching and holding his eye before House could look away. "If you'd said anything the next day instead of aimlessly flirting I would have slept with you."

They stared at each other for a second before both chuckling at the irony and for a moment it felt like old times sitting there with Wilson over lunch laughing and joking. It felt so good to be in that place again that House nearly forgot that he shouldn't, in fact, be there. His smile faded away, precipitating the same with his ex-best friend's.

"You still love me House," Wilson murmured. "You know you do. And I'm more in love with you than ever. I need to finish rehab and outpatient, continue to work through my issues. That's a no-brainer but…we could make it work. I know we could."

House nodded almost imperceptibly and stared down at the table again, fingering the edge of the pie plate absently. He was so confused he couldn't think straight about anything. He loved Clee but he also loved the man sitting across the table from him. He had no idea what to do. He flinched a little when he felt Wilson's hand suddenly holding his and gently rubbing his knuckles. The right thing to have done would have been to pull his hand away, tell Wilson that they were over, get up from the table and go back to Clee's bedside but House didn't always do the right thing and he didn't here, either. If there was an edge of a cliff nearby House was like a lemming; he was prone to jump to his ruin just to satisfy his damned curiosity. He continued to allow Wilson to hold his hand, even enjoyed it far too much and knew that had they been somewhere truly private he would be kissing the younger man by now.

It took a lot of effort to look back up at the oncologist's beautiful brown eyes that held so much love and longing for him.

"I need time to think," House informed him, slowly extricating his hand now. "You can't just waltz back in here and expect me to forget everything that happened and run back to you. I love Justin, he makes me happy when we're together and even though he could do a hell of a lot better, he loves me, too. Fuck, Wilson…I don't know what to do. I need to figure that out first."

Wilson nodded in genuine empathy. "Okay. Take whatever time you need. I'll be here until Thursday morning." He pulled a pen out of his breast pocket and scribbled his hotel, room number and the number to reach him at while he was in Philadelphia. Following that he wrote down the name and number of the hospital in Houston. He slid it across the table to House and then put his pen away. "That's where you can reach me or leave a message while I'm here, and that's the number for Silver Springs. Or you can catch me around here when I come to visit Danny."

House took the napkin and folded it before sticking it into his sport jacket pocket. He swallowed the last of his coffee and then rose from the table. Wilson did the same.

"I need to check on my new team before they decide my female patient needs emergency prostate surgery," the diagnostician told him ruefully, trying to ease the tension in the air.

Wilson chuckled at that. He stepped up to House a little too close for comfort and took his hand again briefly squeezing it and looking deeply into azure blue eyes. "Some things never change."

Unable to come up with a response and feeling like he was about to lose himself in two chocolate pools House simply pulled his hand away discreetly and then turned and limped heavily out of the cafeteria. As soon as he was out of sight from Wilson he found the nearest washroom and dodged inside. There was someone using a urinal so he went to a booth and sat down. His mind was spinning, his heart felt like it was about to explode, and he found it difficult to breathe. It wasn't until he went to rub his face with his hands that he realized he'd been crying.

He needed to talk to someone-a third party. Hutton would have been the one he'd turn to under normal circumstances but right now she had enough on her mind with what had happened to Stephania—she didn't need to be dealing with his problems on top of that. He certainly didn't want to go to Nolan, so only one other person came to mind.

Reluctantly House paged Chase and told him to meet him at the diagnostician's office a.s.a.p., wiped away the tears, washed his face with cold water and then headed to his office as well.

**Monday, July 5, 2010; 2:30 P.M.**

Stephania was gone with her nurse to take a shower, which gave Hutton time to go to the bathroom and then grab a bite to eat. When she got to the cafeteria one of the first things she noticed was that the dark-haired figure sitting all by himself at the far end of the room looked familiar. The second was that she should have expected this as soon as she learned who Danny was. She didn't know whether to curse and walk away or curse and march up to James Wilson and give him what for; she went with option two. Sliding into the chair opposite his, she silently stared at him until he acknowledged her.

"Dr. Hutton, I presume?" Wilson said warily, trying for a little levity but the psychologist wasn't amused. She didn't feel like acting like the medical professional; she was completely House's and Clee's friend at that moment.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked him coldly, trying to stare him down. It worked; Wilson glanced away from her gaze.

Sighing, Wilson sat back in his seat and forced himself to look at her. He looked drawn, tired and sullen. "I'm good, thanks, couldn't be better," he replied sarcastically. "Thanks for asking; and you?"

Smiling mirthlessly she shook her head. "Don't do it. I won't let you."

He looked at her like she'd just told him that the sky was tangerine with purple polka-dotted clouds. "I don't know what your problem is, but I'm really not in the mood for an argument with you. I'm here because my brother was shot and nearly killed. I have no idea what ulterior motives you've already assigned to me but I assure you I'm not here to hurt anybody." He made to stand up but she put a hand on his shoulder and pressed him back in his seat.

"You're telling me that you're here in Philly at this particular hospital and you have no intention of speaking to House at all?" Hutton asked dubiously. "I find that very hard to believe."

"I didn't say that I wasn't going to speak with House," Wilson said with a sigh. "I said I wasn't going to hurt anybody. I've already had the opportunity to talk with him."

"What about?" she demanded, unwilling to trust him. House was settling in to a normal routine, was doing well with therapy, was in a healthy, happy relationship with Clee and the last thing he needed was for Wilson to reenter his life and turn it upside down again—especially now with Clee's wounding adding extra strain on the diagnostician. Justin Clee was her friend—she'd known him for years and he'd been put through hell with what had happened with Charlie. He had found happiness again and if anyone deserved to be happy it was him. She wasn't going to allow that to be stolen from him, either.

"That's none of your business," Wilson insisted, his anger beginning to show. If he wants you to know, he'll tell you in therapy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going back to sit with my brother."

"I don't excuse you," Hutton told him. She scowled at him. "House was devastated when you dumped him and told him that you never wanted to see him again. He's still dealing with that as well as the near death of the man he loves—a man who treats him better than _anyone_ has before. He's getting his life on track and the last thing he needs is for you to come in, get him trusting you again and then turn around and hurt him. If you break his heart again, I'm not sure he'll recover from it."

"The last thing I want to do is break House's heart," was the oncologist's response. "I know I've hurt him, Dr. Hutton. I feel sick about that. I was really screwed up. I'm in rehab right now, in Houston. I was given a short leave of absence when I found out Danny had been shot but I'll be returning Thursday evening to complete that program and continue with follow-up treatment. I know I'm not in the right place right now and that I need to do a lot more hard work…but I _am_ in love with House, and he admitted that he's still in love with me; if House decides to be with me rather than Justin I'm going to take advantage of that."

"If you really love House as much as you claim you do," the psychiatrist told him coldly, "you'll leave him alone for the rest of your stay in Philadelphia, you'll go back to Houston, and you'll never come near him again. You're bad for him, Dr. Wilson. You're poison to his soul. I will not allow you to toy with his heart and destroy him again."

"Don't you think that's House's decision to make, not yours?" Wilson spat. "You are not objective when it comes to House anymore, Doctor. You have a definite conflict of interest and for his sake and to abide by medical ethics, you need to step down as his therapist. This little discussion could wind up getting you in some trouble if it were to become public."

"Are you threatening me, Dr. Wilson?"

He smirked, only increasing Hutton's ire tenfold. "If you consider yourself a doctor dedicated to the best interests of your patient rather than yourself, there's no reason for you to feel threatened. Good day, Dr. Hutton."

With that Wilson picked up his tray and left the table. She watched as he dumped his garbage, set the tray on top of the garbage receptacle, and strode away.

Sighing, Hutton sat there for a short while, trying to come up with a game plan that would protect her friends from getting hurt.

**(~*~)**

"Hey, you paged me?"

Chase entered House's office and sat down.

"How's your case going?" House asked. He sat behind his desk with his legs elevated on top and a heating pad wrapped around his right thigh.

"It's under control," he answered with a shrug. "Oh, yeah, while I'm here…how hard is it to convince the CDC to rush through an analysis of a viral sample?

His boss raised an eye brow, both curious and amused. "You've been holding out on me. What virus are you suspecting?"

"I think my patient may have Hantavirus, the symptoms fit only there's something not quite right—not a lot of that in this region—and if its hanta then the viral load's too low. To be safe I had him moved to an isolation unit until we know for certain."

"Have you searched his home? Found mouse droppings or urine for testing?" House asked. "Does he live with anyone and if he does, have they been sick or are symptomatic?"

"We searched and the house itself was clean but Remy found mouse droppings inside a couple of empty moving boxes in the garage. They're still being tested as we speak. He has a wife and a three-year-old son. Neither of them has been sick nor show signs of being sick currently. They're being tested, nonetheless." House hid his reaction to the Australian's use of Thirteen's given name. That was their business, not his. Wait a minute, since when?

"Hanta tends to thrive in hot, arid environments where deer mice run rampant and go to the bathroom where human's work and play and stir up the dust that carries the virus and is then inhaled by said humans," the diagnostician told him. "You said that she found the droppings inside unpacked boxes? As in boxes that held personal items transported from one home to another in a move—perhaps across the country from say the Four Corners?"*

"No," Chase replied. "They moved to here from somewhere in Canada last year. They did say the name of the place but I can't recall it off hand."

"It gets quite arid in the southernmost regions of Alberta and Saskatchewan. There are British deer mice too, you know."

The intensivist rolled his eyes and objected, "They're not Brits, they're Canadians."

"They have Queen Liz number two on their money, don't they?"

"Oh, yes," Chase sighed. "The same logic that led you to call me a Brit. Australia and Canada are Commonwealth countries but that does not make them part of Great Britain. They were formerly part of the greater British Empire at one point but are now independent countries." He sighed. "You have a point about the fact that my patient could have been in contact with a vector in their previous home, though. I'll ask him about that. So that's why you paged me—to check up on me?"

"That's part of it," House admitted, becoming much more somber as he thought about his conversation with Wilson earlier and his confusion over it all. He wasn't certain it was wise of him to talk to Chase about this, but he needed to talk to someone and his normal avenues were blocked for the time being. The mere fact that he even felt like he needed to have a personal conversation with another person and thus make himself vulnerable to them was enough to add to his confusion. "I need to…discuss something with someone and you rolled the unlucky number. This stays between us and goes nowhere else."

Sitting up in his seat the intensivist nodded. He appeared to sense House's mood and discomfort and was going to treat this seriously.

"It goes nowhere," he agreed.

There were a few moments of silence as House battled with himself whether or not to go ahead and confide in his assistant or not. Of everyone currently in House's sphere of influence Chase had known both the diagnostician and Wilson the longest. House hoped this would help him comprehend the position he found himself in. Still, it was such a personal topic…

"It concerns both Justin and Wilson," House told him at last, his eyes avoiding direct contact with the younger doctor's. "You know that Wilson is here at St. Luke's visiting his brother, right?"

"I'd heard that he was, but I haven't actually seen him yet. Why?"

House exhaled loudly, completely emptying his lungs before filling them again. "Wilson and I were…at the very early stages of a non-platonic relationship before I came to work here. We were taking things slowly but we both agreed in how we felt for each other."

"I'm with you so far," Chase told him.

"Wilson was drinking heavily and had a few issues that he needed to deal with…he's an alcoholic. When he began to take a nose dive he broke things off between us, told me he didn't want anything more to do with me. Shortly after that he hit his lowest point and admitted himself to a rehabilitation program in Texas. He's been there up until now and came here with a therapist acting as his chaperone when he learned about his brother being shot. While here he made contact with me to apologize for his treatment of me, claiming he pushed me away so he wouldn't drag me down but that he's still interested in a relationship with me, once he's finished with rehab and follow up treatment. As much as I…care about Justin, I find that I still care about Wilson as well and I have no fucking idea what to do. I needed a sounding board to talk to before…well, before it got away on me. Now I'm only telling you this because Hutton has family matters to focus on so I don't want to burden her with this. I feel like a fool right now."

"House, uh, first of all," Chase said, picking and choosing his words carefully, "I'm…honored that you trust me with this. I know how private a person you are. I don't see you as a fool at all. Please don't feel embarrassed. I don't know how much of a help I can be for you but if there's anything I _can_ do I'm more than willing and that includes being a sounding board. As far as it goes with Wilson well it's never been a secret that the two of you were very close friends so…knowing now that you're bisexual, uh, the fact that there is more there between the two of you than platonic feelings isn't all that surprising. Like Remy said at bowling, she always thought that you and Wilson would end up together. Uh, I don't know Justin well but I would have to have been blind not to see how fond you are of each other and it's obvious that being with him has been good for you. The thing is you and Wilson have a long history together. You were friends for a long time and you know each other better than most spouses do after twenty years of marriage. There've been a lot of storms that you've managed to weather and still remain friends. You really haven't been with Justin very long so I wonder how well you know him and how much of what you feel for him is the result of rebound and how much isn't."

"No matter who I choose, someone is going to end up hurt. I don't want to do that to either one of them," the diagnostician told him, his voice very quiet. "Justin hasn't deserted me yet…then again, we've only known each other a month and he didn't know me at my very worst. He hasn't had to find me on the floor in a pool of puke, overdosing or had me being the reason that his bank accounts were frozen and his practice paralyzed or have me call for a ride home from the bar only to have his girlfriend respond, be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and die. He didn't know me before the infarction, when I wasn't a pathetic fucking addict and gimp. He didn't have to find me lying in a pool of my own blood after I cut my arms to shit or literally snatch me out of the air after I decided to take a leap off the roof of a hospital. But I smile when I'm with Justin. He makes me feel special, lovable. He's supportive and compassionate and giving and holy _fuck_ if I don't sound like a hormonal chick right now!"

"I was going to make a crack about being in touch with your feminine side but I rather like my head still attached to my body," Chase said with a small smile. "Being with Wilson—pros and cons?"

"Pro: he loves me," House said. "Pro: I love him. Pro: he's getting treatment for his issues and knows he's in for the long haul. Pro: he's seen me at my absolute lowest, rock bottom, and yet still wants me; Pro: he's never expected me to change who I am for him; Pro: we've known each other for twenty years, can almost read each other's minds. Pro: we've lived together and have gotten used to each other's domestic quirks. Pro: when there's no drama in our lives, we enjoy being with each other—I only really laugh around him. Pro: his ex-wife says he's the best lover she ever had.

"And cons?" Chase prodded.

House sighed again. "He's a recovering alcoholic; two addicts together could be a problem. Con: he worries about what others think about him too much. Con: He's a doormat. People take advantage of him, especially me. He gets resentful. How long before that resentment gets to be too much? He's got a lousy record in the fidelity department. If he was able to cheat on his wives what makes me think he won't end up cheating on me? Con: he can be a sanctimonious bastard and sometimes when he lectures me I feel like hauling off and hitting him. Con: he's pushed me away before; what if he decides to do that again? Con: he's an enabler. The last thing either of us needs is for him to start enabling me again. Con: if I choose Wilson over Justin I risk losing the…the friends I've made."

"Okay," Chase acknowledged with a nod. "You said that he's getting help, undergoing therapy. That will likely impact his behaviors, how he chooses to act or react."

"People don't change," House reminded him.

"Maybe not who they are at their very core," Chase agreed, "but they can adapt, learn to make better decisions, choose to do things differently, learn how to emphasize their pluses and deemphasize their minuses, try to see things from a different perspective. I've seen you doing that. You've adapted to new situations and people because you've had to and have chosen to. You've grown a great deal but deep down you'll always be a cynical, misanthropic jerk. They're not necessarily mutually exclusive."

"Why do I get the feeling that you're in the pro-Wilson camp?" the diagnostician asked him, squinting suspiciously.

"Maybe I consider myself to be in the pro-House camp." His pager went off and he quickly checked it. Chase rose from his chair. "You have to do what will be good for both your partner _and_ you. If you lose your so-called friends because you do what is right for you then good riddance. You'll still have Remy and me."

House didn't say anything as Chase left his office; he was genuinely surprised by the intensivist's statement. He was right, yet House was still apprehensive. He had a lot to lose—basically everything he'd worked so hard for in Philadelphia. He couldn't work in a hospital where everybody he knew hated him, not again.

He rose tiredly from his seat and headed for the ICU. Once there House sat with Clee while he slept, studying his face, his neck, and the love bite he'd left there before the shooting. He combed his fingers through the surgeon's hair, caressed his cheek ever so lightly, and thought about what he'd discussed with Chase.

He knew that he couldn't live his life out of fear of what others would think about the decisions he made; he never had. He also knew that he couldn't bear the idea of hurting the man before him as well as the friends he'd made who cared about Clee very much. Yet, House couldn't deny the fact that he still loved Wilson, still wanted him. There was a bond between them that he couldn't explain but it was stronger than steel. He didn't want to hurt Wilson, either—especially now as the oncologist was trying to pick up the pieces of his fractured life and heal. For a moment House wished he'd never gone out with Clee that first time but rather had allowed himself time to deal with his broken relationship properly before becoming involved with someone else. However, he had and he was involved emotionally and physically with him.

Therefore his decision couldn't be based on his emotions, including fear. It had to be logical, organized, and practical. He'd rarely had trouble in the past separating his mind from his heart and when he had the Vicodin had helped quiet his heart so he could hear himself think. He wasn't about to throw away everything he'd struggled to achieve by taking Vicodin to silence his heart again. He thought hard about what he had to gain and lose depending upon who he chose. An hour passed like it had only been a couple of minutes when Clee began to stir as he awakened. He opened smoky blue eyes and beamed when he saw House sitting there. House fought to hide the conflict he was feeling from him, and smirked affectionately at him in return.

"Mmm, hi," the surgeon said quietly, lifting the oxygen mask that had been fixed over his nose and mouth. "How long have I been sleeping?"

"A couple of hours," House told him. He wanted to take Clee's hand in his but resisted the urge. He need to keep as objective as possible. "How do you feel?"

"Not so good," Clee admitted. "How can I describe it? Hmm…malaise, I guess. I felt better this morning."

"Any pain?"

Smiling sickly, the patient shook his head no. "Not if I stay still and don't try to take too big of a breath."

"I'll get the nurse concerning your pain meds," House said, rising from his side but Clee grabbed his wrist.

"I'm fine for now. Sit down and visit with me."

House did as he was told. Clee kept a hold on him as if afraid that if he let go House would run away. The older man wasn't all that certain that his lover wasn't right.

After a few moments of simply breathing in the oxygen enriched atmosphere inside the mask Clee lifted it again. "What's wrong, Greg? Don't tell me that you're fine. I can tell that you're not."

The look of determination in Clee's eyes was daunting, and House knew that he wouldn't be let off the hook until he gave him some kind of answer. The problem was he didn't want to lie. He liked the fact that they were honest with each other. House had learned to trust the surgeon to be fair about anything he was told. He was afraid, though, that the truth might end up upsetting Clee when the last thing he needed at this time was to be stressed. House could try to deflect, but it hadn't worked before with his astute boyfriend and if Clee suspected he was being lied to, that would probably upset him to. No matter what House did these days, he was fucked—and not in the good way.

"I don't want to concern you about anything right now," House told him softly, squeezing his hand. "You need to relax, rest and recuperate."

"Greg, if I know there's something troubling you that you won't talk to me about, all I _will_ do is _obsess_ over it," Clee told him.

It was true, House knew. The same could be said of him. It seemed he would have to tell him the truth but try to tame it down as much as possible.

"Okay, I'll tell you, but you have to keep that mask on and remain calm," the diagnostician insisted. "If I see your O₂ sats drop or your heart rate increase, our discussion is over."

Clee nodded, keeping the mask where it belonged and waiting somewhat impatiently for House to begin.

Swallowing hard and thinking fast House explained, "The other man in the stable who had been shot before you turned out to be Wilson's younger brother, Daniel. After hearing about the shooting from his parents Wilson flew to Philadelphia from Houston to be with his family. He saw me coming out of here earlier and asked if we could talk. We went down to the cafeteria for coffee and he told me the reason why he dumped me like he did and also that he's on compassion leave from a rehab hospital in Texas where he's been dealing with his alcoholism. I told him that I was with you and that I love you. Seeing Wilson again uh, surprised me and I've been a little distracted since. A lot of pain and emotion was stirred up but I'm going to be fine and there's nothing for you to be concerned about. He'll be leaving for Houston again on Thursday so it's all good."

The surgeon looked up at his lover with inquisitive eyes. He lifted his mask long enough to say, "There's more to this than you're telling because you're try to protect me. I don't need you to protect me, Greg; I _need_ you to be honest with me."

"I am being honest, Justin."

"But you're holding back so whatever you're holding back is something you don't want me to know," Clee insisted. Feeling winded he put the mask back on and took some deep breaths before continuing. "Let me guess…he wants a second chance with you. Am I right?"

House struggled to hide a reaction. "Why would you assume that?"

"Because," the younger man said, "if I were him…I would. The only reason you would try to keep that from me…is if you were uncertain what to do."

"Justin—" House tried to speak but his lover wouldn't let him.

"Are you still in love with him?"

"I love _you_." House told him. This was not going well—it was exactly what he'd hoped to avoid.

"I didn't ask you that," Clee said with an impatient shake of his head. "Are you still in love with _him_?"

House glanced at his O₂ sats. They were down to ninety and his heart rate was elevated as well.

"This discussion is over," House told him, "your numbers—"

"I don't give a damn about my numbers," Clee snapped in frustration. "Just answer my question, Greg!"

All House could do was stare blankly at the surgeon, unable to find the words he needed to calm this situation. When he looked away from Justin's intense gaze the younger man had his answer.

"Greg," he said weakly, "I know you love me. I know you don't want to hurt me and I know that you're confused and hurting. I want to be with you…but I don't want you to choose me because I'm sick and need to be taken care of or out of a sense of guilt. I want you to be happy. I want that for myself, too. You have to want to be with me completely or neither one of us will end up happy."

"Justin, I don't want to feel like this," House told him, nearly whispering, and his eyes near tears.

"I know. I don't want to feel like this either. You need to go and do whatever it is you need to do to figure out what it is you really want."

"I'm not leaving," the diagnostician insisted stubbornly. "I'm where I want to be."

"Would you stake your life on that?" Clee asked him, "or _for_ that matter, mine? Go and don't come back until you know who and what it is exactly that you want. I don't want to see you again until you have your answer and there is no more doubt. As you can see, I'm not going anywhere, so you know where to find me when you decide."

House felt his heart drop into his stomach. His life had been flipped upside down again just when he thought he knew where he wanted to be and with whom. Why couldn't he just hate one and love the other and be done with it? Why did he have to make such a difficult choice? He opened his mouth to protest but the shaking of Clee's head and the tear running down his face stopped him.

"Go."

House realized that he wouldn't be able to save the situation or change Clee's mind. With a stiff, curt nod House got up and limped heavily out of the room without another word. He didn't have much time to recover from that encounter before he was paged by Preston. The lab results, MRI and CT-PET scan results were in. The last thing he wanted to do was meet with his team to go over the results but he knew he had to…and he was genuinely curious to see what they had to say. After popping some ibuprofen he made his way back to his office when all he really wanted was to go home.

The results didn't clear up much of anything, really. There was no sign of a tumor, abscess, lesion or structural abnormality on the CT-PET and head MRI to explain the possibility of Paraneoplastic syndrome but there were definite signs of inflammation of the brain as well as the slow increase in intracranial pressure that came with meningeal or encephalitic infection. Ferry was certain to report that their patient was experiencing increasing head and neck pain as well as confusion but her temperature hadn't changed and was still within safe parameters. Blood calcium came back as higher than normal and cholesterol was lower. That with the earlier symptoms pointed toward a thyroid storm of unknown causation. Her thyroid levels were soaring as further confirmation but hyperthyroidism didn't adequately explain the other symptoms to House's satisfaction. The results from the anti-NMDA receptor antibody screen weren't back yet, but the original symptoms still fit Paraneoplastic syndrome-induced aseptic encephalitis. He was genuinely bewildered. What disease or condition would present with both the symptoms of Paraneoplastic aseptic encephalitis and hyperthyroidism with the addition of synesthesia without the presence of a tumor anywhere in her brain _and_ hyperthyroidism?

"Treat for the pain and symptoms of encephalitis as well as the thyroid storm," House instructed. "If her ICP increases much more we may have to drill a burr hole. Keep monitoring it. CT her thyroid. If it comes back clean then I'll consider a full body MRI. Get back to me immediately once the Anti-NMDA screen results return."

After that, House decided it was time to call it a day and headed home. He had a lot to think about. Roth's P.A. caught him with a message to give him. The state licensing board had approved Dr. VanLuten's prescribed pain management regimen and VanLuten's office would be in contact with him concerning the scheduling of his first treatment session. His first impulse was to tell Clee the good news—and then he remembered that he couldn't; at least, not yet. He nodded his thanks to the message bearer and hurried out to his bike before anyone else could stop him.

**Monday, July 5, 2010; 5:30 P.M.**

Hutton stopped by Clee's room to say hi before going home for a few hours to shower, eat and get a little sleep before returning to St. Luke's to be with Stephania; she found him crying silently. She didn't have to ask too many questions to figure out what had happened. She sat with him, held his hand, and rubbed his shoulder in supportive silence until the surgeon fell asleep.

She wasn't certain who she was angrier at: Wilson for returning and upsetting the apple cart again, House for allowing Wilson to confuse and distract him, or herself for not anticipating this and acting proactively as soon as she had learned that Joe was really Daniel and Daniel was Wilson's brother. Yes, her daughter was going through a rough time which was hard on the psychiatrist as well but she was still House's therapist and she'd been neglecting him. She was determined to remedy that.

**Monday, July 5, 2010; 9:48 P.M.**

House lounged on the back deck of his home, looking up at the darkening summer sky at the brightest stars already twinkling. The air was cooling, causing goosebumps to form on the exposed flesh of his arms and neck. He'd been there for over two hours and had barely moved since first settling down on the anti-gravity chair. Yesterday afternoon he'd been lying in the grass under an oak tree with Justin. They'd just made love and he'd felt content, perhaps even happy. There hadn't been a doubt in his mind about wanting to be with him for as long as possible. Twenty-four hours later he'd sat across a table from another man that at one time he'd had no doubt that he wanted to spend his life with. Now he was alone, back to square one. Why was it that no matter how hard he tried to move ahead with his life and find happiness he always ended up back in this state of aloneness?

He didn't know whether he was coming or going. All he had wanted was to be happy. He didn't know which path would take him there and he didn't know if he had the strength to come back and try again if he chose the wrong path now.

It was so tempting to go into his kitchen, into the fridge and grab the beer he kept there for Justin and anyone else who came by. He wanted to get drunk and numb himself from the pain he was feeling. So far, he'd managed to resist the pull he felt but he wasn't certain if he could hold out much longer. He knew if he drank it and got caught he'd find his ass back behind the locked doors of Mayfield. Good-bye job, good-bye friends, good-bye everything. Perhaps that was what had kept him from succumbing to his craving.

House knew that in situations exactly like this he was supposed to get as far away from the source of temptation as possible and then call Hutton and let her know what was going on, day or night. He knew she was already dealing with Stephania and didn't need to be burdened with him as well. He was also afraid that she would ask what had happened, or would already know, and hate him for hurting Justin like he was—not that he didn't deserve to be hated. No matter what he did he brought pain and misery to the people around him.

He'd had no right to make friends and become involved with Clee when he knew what the ultimate result of their association with him would be.

With a heart-heavy sigh he rose from his chair and grabbed his cane hung on the back and headed into the house, closing and locking the sliding door behind him. He was on his way to the kitchen when the doorbell rang. He frowned, wondering who would be at his door at that time of night. He skipped the kitchen and went to the door, opening it to find Wilson standing there alone. There was no sign of his chaperone anywhere. House sighed silently. This wasn't good.

"Can I come in?" the oncologist asked him.

"What are you doing here?" House asked him. "How did you even know where I live?"

"I ran into Remy at the hospital," he responded. "She gave me directions. I'm here…because I needed to see you. Are you going to let me in?"

House shrugged. What did it matter anymore? No matter what he did he was the asshole. He turned and limped toward the kitchen leaving the door open. Wilson took that as consent to enter the abode. He shut the door behind himself. House went to the fridge. He stared at the bottles of beer weighing the pros and cons for the umpteenth time that evening. The only thing that caused him to grab a can of soda instead of the beer was the fact that Wilson could no longer imbibe with him.

"Soda?" he asked his unexpected guest.

"Uh, no, thanks," Wilson told him having already reached the kitchen. "I'm good."

Nodding House shut the fridge and cracked open his grape soda, taking a long swallow. It just didn't have the impact he'd been looking for.

"Where's your keeper? Or doesn't he know that you've flown the coop?"

"He went to bed early and no, he doesn't know that I rented a car down at the hotel front desk and came here. If he wakes up there will definitely be one unhappy therapist. I have no intention of drinking so he's got nothing to worry about."

House headed to the living room with his drink and sat down on the sofa. He picked up the remote control for the TV and satellite receiver and turned them on. He lifted his bad leg up onto the cushion that was already in place on the coffee table. He was hoping that he could either ignore Wilson and he would get bored and leave or find out the real reason the younger man was there at ten o'clock in the evening.

Wilson sat down on the sofa with him and it was déjà vu. How many times had he and the oncologist sat together just like this in front of the TV? Back in the day they would sit in silence and be comfortable simply to be in each other's presence. That comfortable atmosphere was missing in the here and now. Instead there was sexual and emotional tension that House could feel and knew that Wilson did as well.

House channel surfed, changing from one station to another too quickly to possibly be able to determine what was on. He wasn't interested in watching television, but he had to do something to keep himself from going crazy.

"This place is…it's great. I'm glad there's plenty of room for your baby grand," Wilson told him, smiling slightly.

House sighed audibly and muted the TV before turning to look at the younger man. "I told you I needed time."

"I know," Wilson acknowledged with a nod. "I understand that but I needed to see you again. I can't stop thinking about you, House."

"Thanks to your return from Texas I'm having the same problem," House muttered. He wanted to feel angry or at least irritated but was finding that very difficult. "Justin…doesn't want to see me until I decide which one of you I want to be with."

"The fact that you're not at the hospital with him means you're…uncertain?"

Wilson's beautiful eyes lit up with hope. House groaned inwardly. Sure, it was easy for _him_. Wilson knew what he wanted. He didn't have to choose knowing that his choice would mean that someone he loved would be hurt by it.

"You're not making this easy on me," House told him, already finding his resolve crumbling as Wilson shuffled closer to him.

"It can be easy," the younger man told him. House tried not to look at his very kissable lips as he spoke. "Just go with what you feel, what you know you want."

"I want someone I can trust who won't walk out on me when the going gets tough," House told him, trying for harsh but sounding emo instead. Wilson was close enough now that he could feel his body heat, smell his aftershave and shampoo; he always did smell so good. House's brain was telling him to get as far away from the object of his temptation as quickly as he could and call for help. His body and heart were telling him to stay and they were overwhelming his brain at the moment.

"You know why I did it," Wilson reminded him. "You know that no matter how hard we try we'll never be able to stay away from each other." He ran his hand down House's arm. His touch sent shivers through the diagnostician. He tried to focus on the guilt he was feeling for being here alone with him and falling for Wilson's charm when Justin was back at the hospital uncertain about what was going to happen. It wasn't working.

"I love you, House; you love me. Don't fight this."

"I…I…," House said, trying to object but Wilson's left hand was cupping his cheek now while the right hand came to rest on House's good thigh, rubbing circles that got closer and closer to _too_ _close_ for comfort.

"Tell me to stop," the oncologist told him as he lifted his right knee onto the seat of the sofa and leaned in towards House's face, "and I'll stop."

House opened his mouth but couldn't find his voice. Wilson's touch felt so good…his scent was so intoxicating. He'd wanted this for years and years and now here it was and he didn't know how to resist it. Wilson stopped his face only an inch away from the older man's and licked his bottom lip. His pink tongue gliding across his lip caught House's attention, and he wanted to feel that tongue coiled around his.

"Last chance to say stop," Wilson told him in a whisper.

House couldn't stand having Wilson so close and yet so far away. All reason and logic was overcome by desire and he closed the distance between his lips and the oncologist's. That's when House gave into his desire and lost himself in the younger man's touch, taste and smell. All thoughts of restraint and caution were thrown to the wind. He couldn't get enough of him and Wilson seemed to be experiencing the same thing.

The sofa thing just wasn't working. Wilson rose to his feet and offered House a hand up, which in his state of arousal House didn't even think about rejecting. House wasn't certain how they'd made it to the bedroom; all he remembered was deep, passionate kissing and groping and the shedding of clothes right out of a bad romance novel. All he could think about was how incredibly sexy Wilson was without his starched collars, ugly ties and ubiquitous suit bottoms. His creamy skin felt and tasted better than he'd ever imagined. His hair…House kept running his fingers through those incredible, silky locks that were only slightly touched with grey around his temples. The feel of his body against House's, flesh against flesh.

Suddenly they were on the bed, tangled up in each other so that it was impossible to look at them and know with certainty which arm belonged to whom or that they were two instead of one. Wilson made the effort to take it easy on House's leg but the older man didn't give a damn about the pain; it was nothing compared to the overwhelming sensory input entering his brain. Images, tastes, sounds, caresses and friction, groans and pants and filthy, dirty things whispered between simple words of tenderness, caring and love. It was more than House could process so he chose not to, allowing himself to simply experience without the mental dialogue that was usually there.

Wilson's mouth was masterful as it sucked on House's nipple, intermixed with licks which brought moans of delight from him. His body literally writhed under the oncologist's ministrations and minister he did with not only his mouth but his hands and legs and feet. Bonnie had once told House that Wilson was an incredible lover; now House understood completely what she had meant. He made House feel like he was the center of the universe and everything revolved around him.

Not that House was all about take and no give. His fingers rolled Wilson's nipples between then and pinched lightly, bring a snarl from him. House left openmouthed kisses along his shoulder, the crook of the neck on both sides, that spot behind the ear than caused Wilson to groan such that House nearly climaxed just listening to it and returned to that spot on the other side looking for an encore. His pianist fingers ran down Wilson's flank and the one hand moved to his ass, the other towards his cock which had been grinding fervently against House's. With the center finger of his right hand House found Wilson's opening and began to circle around the rim with varying degrees of pressure while with his other hand he sound the head of the younger man's circumcised penis and began to rub just under the glans and then up to the slit. Wilson immediately began pushing his ass against House's finger in one half of a thrust and then contacted his hand with his dick on the return.

Smiling at the reaction he was receiving House pushed his finger just inside the rim of Wilson's opening and that brought forth a moaning and murmurs of encouragement. Their eyes met and the exchange of unspoken feelings and thoughts took place and for House it was beautiful.

"Oh, god, House," Wilson gasped, "Mm-uhmm…I need you…inside me!"

House nodded and reached to his night table for the lube. After a little preparation House sat back against the headboard and guided Wilson down on to him. He entered slowly at first; Wilson was in charge of how fast and how deep he went. After a few seconds Wilson came down completely and House's cock slid into him to the hilt, so to speak.

Both men groaned ecstatically at that. It was so much better that he could have imagined. He had Wilson completely enveloping him and the sensation caused House's body to hum. Wilson began to withdraw and the thrust downward at a measured pace and House instinctively began to thrust his pelvis in time with him. Wilson shuddered, throwing his head back. House couldn't get over how fucking hot that was, to see the grimace of desire on Wilson's face combine with new bliss.

He reached to grab Wilson's erection in his hand and began to stroke it with a light touch but as his own excitement and pleasure built he began to pump Wilson in rhythm with the thrusts and withdrawals. The sound Wilson made was almost more that House could bear. The pressure was building and he knew he was very close. He didn't want to come too soon but the urgency in Wilson's movements said to him that he was close to climax as well. House shifted his pelvis into a better angle and began to make contact with the younger man's prostate almost every time. Wilson began to gasp and keen.

"Oh…oh, goddamnit yes, Christ , oh..ahhh-ah, House…"

"Just let go Jimmy," House managed to gasp. "Give it…fuck, give it to me…"

Two more plunges and Wilson did give it up, coming hard. His climax sent shots of cum across House's abdomen which was enough to bring the diagnostician over as well. He was made blind by the intensity of his orgasm; it literally swept his breath away as his seed filled Wilson up to overflowing.

When his sight began to return along with his other sensed and the ability to process again he kissed Wilson passionately. He was soft now and Wilson rolled off of him to House's good side and immediately curled up with him, holding onto House for dear life, it seemed. House held him as well, overwhelmed by what had finally taken place.

* Four Corners: For those unfamiliar with the term, it refers to four American states whose borders meet at roughly ninety degree angles: Utah, Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona.

**A/N 2:** I am well aware that some of you are furious right now with what happened this chapter and some of you are happy about it. Please don't flame me and remember, "it ain't over 'til the fat lady sings". (I can say that because I am a fat lady;)) I already have it planned who ends up with whom so I'm not going to be persuaded otherwise.


	53. Chapter 53 Part 3 Ch 19

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author. Any and all errors are entirely my own.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **~8600

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Nineteen: Tuesday, July 6, 2010; 5:19 A.M.**

Waking up, House rolled over to wrap his arm around Wilson but instead felt nothing there. He opened his eyes in surprise and saw that the other side of the bed was empty, the mattress cold. He frowned and propped himself up onto his elbow so he could see the clock. It was still too early for him to be up and gone to see Danny, wasn't it? The kid was probably still sleeping.

He rolled back onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He didn't like waking up alone after sex. That sort of thing happened after one night stands. Was that what this was—a one night stand? Had Wilson awoke to rue what had happened and decided to skip out while the getting was good? He was trying to work it out with his sleepy brain but a hollow feeling was forming in his chest.

House slowly got out of bed, his leg throbbing mercilessly. Soon, he thought, soon…he had been approved for the pain management protocol and this pain would finally be taken care of properly. He reached for the ibuprofen bottle on his bedside table, downed a couple of tablets, grabbed his cane, and forced himself to his feet with a hiss and a grimace. He put on his robe and then turned on the light, looking for a note or some other sign that Wilson was still there but in another part of the house.

There was no note, nor were there any of the clothes House had nearly torn off of Wilson in sexual frenzy. The hollow feeling expanded but he wasn't ready to pass judgment yet. He stiffly limped out of the bedroom, forcing himself to ignore the pain, and headed to toward the kitchen. Half way there the aroma of coffee wafted through the air and tickled his nose. He rounded the corner to see Wilson standing in front of the stove wearing one of House's t-shirts and a pair of his pajama pants. House couldn't help but notice how sexy it was to see Wilson in his clothes.

Wilson had heard his thump-step approach and turned to face him, a spatula in his hand and a smile on his face. "Good morning. Did I wake you?"

House shook his head, approaching Wilson slowly. "No, but I wish you had. I got a little nervous when I woke up and realized I was alone."

Wilson, who was preparing French toast, picked up the last two pieces with the spatula and transferred them to the plate with the others.

"You looked so peaceful," Wilson explained, "that I didn't want to disturb that. I know that sleep doesn't come easily for you. I hope you don't mind, but I threw my clothes into the drier to air them out." He removed the frying pan from the heat and shut off the burner before turning around and embracing him. Smiling knowingly he kissed House passionately. House kissed back briefly before pulling back. Wilson pressed his cheek against House's so that his mouth was right up to his ear.

"Mmmm," Wilson hummed contentedly, "I can't believe I tried to run away from this for so many years."

House kissed his neck tenderly. "It was self-preservation," he whispered, unable to resist returning the embrace.

"No," the younger man argued. "It was pride, and fear and a ridiculous need to please people who I realize will never be fully pleased with me no matter what I do." He sighed and then gently pushed House away far enough to look into his face, meet his gaze. It sent a shiver through House's body. "I've never had to pander or perform to garner your approval, have I?"

"Nope," House replied, kissing the end of his nose, "though cooking for me never hurt."

Chuckling at that, Wilson said, "Speaking of which, the French toast is getting cold. I would have made you macadamia nut pancakes but you had no macadamia nuts around."

"I'll have to remedy that," the diagnostician said without thinking. Why had he said that so quickly? His future with who was going to be with was still up in the air, wasn't it?

"Good," was the quick reply followed by a buss on the lips. "Sit down and I'll pour your coffee."

House reluctantly released his hold on Wilson and took a stool at the island where the syrup, margarine, icing sugar, freshly sliced strawberries and sugar bowl were already assembled and two places set. Wilson poured them two large mugs of coffee and brought them over, carrying them in one hand and the platter of French toast in the other.

Wilson sat down. "I would have made some bacon, too, but you were out of it."

"When I moved in Hutton and her best friend had made certain that the kitchen was stocked. They saw my cupboards back at my apartment and decided I needed more than cereal and soup to survive on. They conveniently bought everything non-or low-fat and multigrain as a favor to my heart and arteries. Real bacon was out, turkey bacon was in. I tried to feed it to the mutt from the farm down the road but not even he wanted it."

"Well, I'm glad somebody is trying to take care of your health," Wilson told him, stabbing a couple of slices of French toast and dropping them onto his plate. He spooned some of the strawberries on top and avoided the syrup. "I noticed your leg was bothering you this morning."

"Always does, you know that," House responded as he stacked three slices onto his plate, smothered them in trans-fat-free, polyunsaturated margarine, light syrup (Hutton et al. again), and a heaping spoonful of icing sugar sprinkled (dumped) on top. "Good news, though."

"Oh? What's that?"

"I was referred to a pain management specialist a couple of weeks ago. Dr. VanLuten diagnosed me with pseudoaddiction due to inadequate and inappropriate pain treatment. She explained that while my body did form a dependency to Vicodin, I wasn't addicted to opiates as much as I was pseudoaddicted to them. It's a result of not receiving proper pain treatment and relief. I behaved in ways that imitated addiction but in truth my body and mind were simply seeking relief from the pain. She developed a pain management protocol for me based on my history, the source and nature of my pain and my needs. She's wants to try a non-narcotic protocol for now. If that remains inadequate then she will cautiously move me onto a low-dose opiate protocol that is carefully measured and managed and accompanied by non-narcotic methods. I required the approval of my therapists and the Pennsylvania state licensing board. I just found out that the board approved the protocol."

Wilson had been listening carefully, with his full attention. He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "I've heard the term pseudoaddiction, I read a couple of articles on it…she's certain that _you_ were pseudoaddicted?"

Nodding, House met Wilson's eyes, studying them for a clue into what the oncologist was thinking, what his opinion was about the possibility of him going back on opiates again if necessary. He knew that Wilson had been the one to first tell him that he was an addict and had stuck by that belief. He'd had House convinced of it as well.

"The physical dependency is real, but addiction is different from dependency. She ran tests that showed that the pain I've been experiencing is real, not conversion or psychosomatic. She also explained that a proper regimen based on the use of the right kind of opiate at the adequate dosage in association with non-narcotic and non-pharmaceutical techniques would eliminate the addiction-like behaviors without compromising my cognitive functions."

Wilson stared down at his food, poking it with his fork. His face was an impassive mask but his eyes were another matter. House remained silent, waiting anxiously for him to respond. When he looked up at the older man there was guilt in his gaze.

"I…I always doubted you when you told me that your leg hurt as much as you claimed," the younger man murmured. "I'd convinced myself that you were exaggerating so I would prescribe more Vicodin than you actually needed to feed your addiction—"

"And to get high," House finished for him, nodding. "The truth is I did like the way the Vicodin numbed me from my depression and the stronger emotions I didn't know how to deal with…but that was secondary to my need to get rid of the physical pain which fueled my depression and created a vicious cycle."

A pained expression contorted Wilson's features. House saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. "House…I, uh," he said and sighed, "I'm sorry for not believing you and for not thinking about the fact that perhaps there were alternatives to the Vicodin that would have worked better for you."

"You had good reason not to believe me," House insisted, shaking his head. "I did many things to cause you to doubt my word."

"True, but I still should have offered you the benefit of the doubt."

"Well, that's in the past," the diagnostician said. "I hurt you, you hurt me. We can't change any of it now. We can learn from it, though."

Wilson squinted at House appraisingly, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "Have you actually changed, House? Has the man who insisted that people don't change proven himself wrong?"

House rolled his eyes at that. "I'm still the same person. I'm still a cynical, angry, cantankerous, arrogant, and misanthropic asshole."

"Perhaps changed isn't the right word," Wilson agreed contemplatively. "Maybe grown, or adapted would be better. I wish…" his voice trailed off wistfully.

"What? You wish what?"

Sighing heavily, the oncologist shrugged, glancing away from him. "You've grown more without me than you ever did with me in your life. I wonder sometimes if I'm _not_ poison for you."

"Why the hell would you think that?" House demanded, scowling. "You're no more of a poison to me than anyone else; I'm not responsible for your choices and mistakes but I am for mine. I made my own decisions, Wilson. I was aware of what I was doing, I made the choices I made and I accept the consequences and responsibility for them; so quit the pity party! We're both broken, and in our brokenness we got stuck in a rut. That doesn't mean that you were the problem. We manipulated each other, we used each other. You made my life bearable in a very unbearable time. I don't call that poison."

"But House—"

"No," the older man insisted, cutting him off. "I've been fucked up for a long time—long before I even met you. When I met you I had no one to check and balance my actions or to act as a word of reason. After I met you, you were those things for me. We were good for each other before the infarction, before my mind and attitude were warped along with my leg, before Stacy betrayed me and I lost faith and trust in everyone. Yet you were still there for me in spite of the hell I put you through. If anyone was a poison, it was me for you."

Wilson shook his head insistently. "No," he asserted firmly, gesturing with his fork, "House, _no_! I was screwed up _long_ before you came into the picture."

"How?" House demanded incredulously. "You came from the classic All-American, _Ozzie and Harriet_-type family—"

He couldn't finish because Wilson broke out into bitter laughter, his eyes tearing up but not from joy or humor. He ran his hand through his hair and then pinched the bridge of his nose briefly. The pain House saw seemed to ooze from every pore of the oncologist's body.

"House, my family was closer to the _Addams Family_ than it ever was to Ozzie and Harriet Nelsons'," he informed the diagnostician. House was taken aback by this. Wilson had never been willing to say much about his childhood or family dynamics. House had visited his parents with Wilson a few times over the years but he hadn't learned much from those occasions. If Wilson was willing to open up about this with him he wasn't going to interrupt.

"My father was a travelling sales rep for a major diamond exchange firm despite the fact that my mother's father offered him a job where he could be home at night with his wife and children. He was gone twice as much as he was at home. My mother…well, she suffered from bipolar disorder back in the days when it was known as manic-depression. My father refused to acknowledge it because if he had he might have felt obliged to be home more, and he didn't like that. Instead of mom receiving proper treatment her doctor kept her on uppers and downers. She…she was an addict. Most of the time she was spaced out and rarely left her room but that was alright because it was a lot better than when she was manic and trying to conquer the world…"

"Who took care of your brothers and you?" House asked somberly. He had the urge to reach over and grab Wilson's hand; it used to be that he would resist that urge. Today, however, he went with it, earning him a surprised look. He ignored it and when Wilson squeezed his fingers House knew that it was appreciated.

"For the most part…I did." Wilson met House's serious gaze. "David was always an ass. Being so much older than Danny and I he was always out with his friends rather than at home helping to take care of Mom and watch over us. I spent years hating him for that…but now I realize he was simply coping like the rest of us. His way was to flee. Mine was to take care of Mom and Danny, keep everything under control at home and keep my grades up at school. The only time my father ever showed that he was pleased with me was when he'd come home and find the house clean, supper made and Danny and I behaving ourselves. He'd come up to me, rub my head, and say, "good job" or 'well done' or 'at least _you're _turning out normal'. Then he'd go back to ignoring Danny and me."

Wilson chuckled bitterly. "I wonder what Dad would have said if he'd found out back then that his 'normal' son liked to be fucked up the ass by other men's sons. Anyway, when Danny finally lost contact with reality, Dad was gone out of town. Danny barricaded himself in his room, because he believed that I was out to get him along with the rest of the world. The police and fire department had to be called to get him out of there before he could hurt himself. Eventually I had to go to college and once I was gone there was no one around to make certain Danny took his meds or made it to his psychiatrist appointments. Then one day he ran away…and you know the rest. I failed him. I should have stayed home with Danny rather than go to college immediately after high school but I was selfish. I wanted out. I didn't have a childhood, House, and I wanted to act like a normal teenager while I still _was_ one!"

"You weren't selfish Wilson. You were anything but," House asserted, his voice deepening. "I had no idea."

"How could you, House?" the oncologist asked him. "I never told you. I never told anyone."

"I wouldn't have listened even if you had tried."

"Yeah," Wilson said with a small smile, "you would have. I would have had to get you drunk or dose you with muscle relaxants so you couldn't run away…but you would have."

House chuckled at that. Wilson smiled genuinely.

"You know what?" he asked the diagnostician.

"What?"

"I think that for the first time in the twenty years we've known each other we actually sat down and really talked," Wilson pointed out, mildly astonished. "Thank you."

House shrugged it off, trying to pretend that it was nothing to him but they both knew it was just an act. It was very significant—but was it enough to base a relationship on?

"I think breakfast has gone cold," the oncologist said, standing up. "I can throw everything into the microwave to re-warm it."

House grabbed him by the wrist to stay him. He rose from his stool and stood close to Wilson. The younger man appeared to be anticipating being grabbed and kissed but House had other plans. Instead he pulled Wilson into a tight hug, burying his face into the younger man's shoulder. It was intimate but not really sexual; the type of hug given and received to comfort, to obtain a sense of security, and express affection. He'd missed Wilson more than he'd allowed himself to acknowledge. For so long he had been House's only support in a very dark, dismal world. Then an emotional distancing had begun that had been far more destructive to their friendship than any mere physical one could have been. In fact, their separation extended much further back than just the last month or so. House traced it back to before Amber died, before Wilson had left the first time, before the cautious reconciliation and House's insanity, detox and stint at Mayfield the first time around; before living with Wilson in the loft and coming the closest to happy he'd ever been before being cast aside for a blonde harpy who tried, and failed, to destroy the bond that existed between the men; before House's suicide attempts and the falling out he and Wilson had had that had nearly crushed House's heart and sent him on a downward spiral again.

House knew that no matter what he decided he would be forever bound to Wilson in an unexplainable way that would follow him into any relationship he were to develop. That being the case didn't automatically mean that they were fated to be together, though. There was so much more to consider than that.

When the oncologist wrapped his arms around House and held him close as well, the tension of the past few days broke somehow and House began to sob. On the very rare occasions he'd cried in front of another human being, House had always held back, never allowed himself to completely let go. Now, he couldn't hold anything back, even if he tried.

Wilson rubbed circles on his back comfortingly. "It's okay, House. I love you. Everything is going to be okay. Shh, Greg. I've got you."

If only House could be certain that he could believe him.

"I'm a fucking cry baby," House sobbed into Wilson's shoulder, "Hutton says it's good for me to cry but if it's so goddamned good why does it hurt so much? I liked it better when I didn't allow myself to feel anything."

Wilson pushed him away enough to be able to look into House's face. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot; tears made his cheekbones glisten and dripped from his upper lip and chin. Wilson gently brushed the wet off House's face with the back of his hand. The older man's eyes closed and he pressed his face into the younger's touch.

"No you didn't," Wilson reminded him with a little smile. "You were miserable. You left that behind for a reason."

"Just so you know," House whispered, resting his forehead against Wilson's, "I can't survive being abandoned or pushed away again."

"I won't. I have to go back to Houston to finish my in-hospital therapy but I already talked with Alex about taking outpatient therapy here in Philadelphia and finding a therapist to see regularly for individual sessions. Initially it was so I could be close to Danny…but now I have an even better reason."

House matched his smile; he leaned in and kissed Wilson tenderly, needily. Wilson returned the kiss with passion, licking his upper lip and then sucking and nibbling on the lower.

House's phone rang; Wilson had to have turned it back on. House's first inclination was to ignore it but then he remembered that he had a patient in critical condition. He broke the embrace with a frustrated sigh and limped to the phone.

"House," he said more sharply than he'd intended into the phone.

"Hello, Dr. House. This is Alex Cryer, Dr. Wilson's therapist. Would he happen to be with you right now?"

"I don't know…is there a straitjacket or some similar kind of restraint waiting for him if I say yes?"

Wilson rolled his eyes and came for the phone but House backed away from him, putting up a hand to ward him off.

"No straitjacket or other restraints have been brought or borrowed," Alex answered mildly.

"Okay, but he has to put his clothes back on so it'll take him a moment or two to find them—"

Wilson snagged the phone from him, giving him an eye roll and a smirk. "Hi, Alex."

House remained standing next to Wilson with no intention of giving him any privacy for this conversation.

"Uh huh…uh huh…yes, I realize that," Wilson said with a sigh in his voice. From the sheepish expression on his face House knew that he was being chewed out by his chaperone for sneaking out after curfew. "No, I haven't touched a drop. I drove straight here with no stops—uh, I rented one from the booth in the hotel lobby. Honestly, I'm still sober."

"I can vouch for that," House said, bringing his mouth close to the mouthpiece on the handset. Since he was in the neighborhood he gave Wilson a smile before kissing along his jaw line towards his ear. Wilson swatted at him as if he were a bothersome fly buzzing around his head but that only made House more persistent. He sucked on Wilson's earlobe—_loudly_.

Wilson was becoming distracted and tried to walk away but House wrapped his arms around him and kept him there.

"Neither of us can drink," Wilson continued. His cheeks were slowly turning pink. "Well, why don't—uh—don't I meet you at the hospital, then…?"

House attacked the spot behind Wilson's ear that he'd discovered the night before drove him wild with open-mouthed kisses and the scraping of his teeth, enjoying the sudden intake of air the younger man made, judging his reactions and behavior.

Covering the mouthpiece with his hand, Wilson hissed half-heartedly, "Stop it!"

Grinning against Wilson's skin House murmured, "Your mouth says no but your cock says 'Oh god, yes _more_!'"

Wilson huffed and removed his hand from the mouthpiece. "Right. No, I'll leave here right away, then."

House shook his head emphatically, mouthing no. Wilson's mouth twitched with amusement but he frowned disapprovingly at House's antics.

"Yes. I'm practically out the door already...Bye." Wilson hung up and then spun to face House. "You are impossible!"

"You've been my friend for twenty years and you're just noticing that now?" House retorted, grinning mischievously. He grabbed Wilson by the hips and pulled at him. The oncologist didn't resist, allowing him to be pulled close and enveloped by House's arms. The older man kissed him hard with the intention of making Wilson change his mind about leaving right away like he'd promised Alex.

"Traffic is backed up for miles," House murmured between kisses. "Major accident on the expressway. You'll be stuck for at least a half an hour. Just another morning in Philly."

Wilson chuckled licentiously. "That sucks. Whatever shall I do until the mess is cleared away and traffic starts moving again?"

"I've got an idea," House whispered into his ear before nibbling on it. His hand moved to Wilson's hardening cock and cupped it, squeezing ever so gently. Wilson gasped and expressed his appreciation by possessing House's mouth and pulling him towards the bedroom.

**Tuesday, July 6, 2010; 8:02 A.M.**

If a man with half-a-thigh and chronic pain could run then House found himself running to his patient's ICU cubicle after receiving the page that she had suffered cardiac arrest and his team was struggling to get her heart started and keep it started—all before he'd even walked through the front doors of St. Luke's that morning.

Heart failure could join aseptic encephalitis and thyroid storm on the whiteboard list.

He arrived to see Preston holding a large-bore syringe with a large, long needle. It was loaded with epinephrine and was going straight into Moore's heart. The attending intensivist whose name House didn't know or care about held the defibrillator paddles, ready to shock the heart again. House pushed his way past the nurses, Ferry, Bell, Preston and Dr. Whatshisname and claimed the paddles. He nodded at Preston to give him the go ahead. Preston punched the needle past Moore's ribs, muscle tissue and thoracic cavity wall directly into the still heart and then pushed the full payload into her. House's eyes went to the cardiac monitor. He was about to try another charge when there was a beat, followed slowly by another, then two quick beats and then a pattern, stronger and surer.

"Sinus rhythm," Preston said out loud and sighed, tossing the used syringe into a Hazmat container for sharps.

"For now, at least," Ferry commented with a shake of her head.

"Run an ECG and an Echo," House ordered. "Bell, after that run a full body MRI. "

Ferry and Preston set to work with the ECG and echocardiogram while Bell went to the nursing station to use the phone. House took another look at his patient. This was his first time seeing her in person. She looked no different from a few dozen other women her age that he'd had as patients over the years. He'd been accused countless times of not caring enough about his patients to even visit them; he cared. In fact, he often found that he cared too much and to keep his objectivity he put distance between himself and his patient both in the physical sense and the psychological sense. He knew that there were other doctors who claimed to be able to remain objective and have a great bedside manner; House wasn't certain he believed that was possible and he knew that for better or for worse he wasn't one of them. Exhaling completely he took his time leaving her cubicle, having ruined his leg for the day and it wasn't even eight-thirty yet.

When he made it to his temporary office he dumped his leather jacket and backpack onto one of the visitor chairs and went to the white board where he added _SUDDEN CARDIAC ARREST_ to the list of symptoms. He then sat down behind his desk and gingerly elevated his legs on it while her stared at the board, hoping that something would jump out at him and trigger an epiphany. What single disease or disorder was capable of presenting itself in neurological, endocrine _and_ cardiac dysfunctions?

He needed something to play with. He hadn't unpacked his personal items yet because this wasn't going to be his office for much longer and he didn't want to have to pack up everything again to move two floors down when the renovations were complete. He didn't have his oversized tennis ball available to him and it was driving him to distraction. He pulled out the drawers in his desk looking for something to fiddle with while he thought but couldn't find anything that caught his fancy.

House sighed and lifted himself out of his chair with a hiss before limping out to the outer office where he found Kirkland at work behind his desk filling out House's paperwork for him. He had to admit that having a personal assistant wasn't the pain in the ass he'd thought it would be. In fact, it was turning out to be something he wanted to keep.

"I need a ball," he told Kirkland, staring down at him. The P.A. looked up at him quizzically.

"A ball? As in a toy that can be bounced, rolled and thrown?"

"Exactly," the diagnostician told him. "Find me one—a woman's life depends upon it."

Kirkland simply stared back at him for several seconds before blinking rapidly for a second and nodding. "Okay. I'll get right to it. Oh, Dr. House, before you walk away I have a couple of messages for you." He tore a couple of sheets off of a pad of Post-It notes onto which he'd scribbled the messages down and proffered them to his boss.

House took them reluctantly and took them back with him to his office. Before he shut the door he said to Kirkland. "I need that ball pronto, as in ten minutes ago."

He went to his desk and sat down again before looking over the messages. The first one concerned forms for Human Resources he hadn't filled out and submitted yet concerning whether or not he required a special disabled parking spot in the doctor's lot. He'd already been parking in one of them since his first day so weren't the forms unnecessary? He crumpled up that Post-It and chucked it like a basketball at the garbage can. It fell straight in.

House smirked smugly and then turned his attention to the second message. It was from Vince Elliott. He immediately picked up the phone and dialed the number on the note. His call went to voicemail and he left a message for Elliott, hoping that this wasn't going to turn into a game of phone tag. About twenty minutes later House's phone rang and he picked it up before Kirkland could.

"House."

"Hey, Dr. House," a male voice said cheerfully, "Vince Elliott here. My apologies for having to get back to you but I was with another client."

"That's fine," House replied. "Were you able to reschedule that meeting with the hospital's lawyers?"

"Yeah. They won't reschedule if it doesn't work for you though," was the response. "They insist on meeting tomorrow at two o'clock at Princeton-Plainsboro. I didn't argue it—I know you're anxious to get this lawsuit over with."

"Agreed," House told him. "I assume you want to meet first to get our story straight."

"Something like that," Elliott agreed. "I thought that we could meet somewhere in Philadelphia and drive to Princeton together so we have time during the drive to go over a few things before the meeting."

"How about here at St. Luke's?" House suggested. "My office."

"Sounds good."

House and Elliott arranged the time and other details. Before they hung up House inquired, "What's your impression of where the hospital is on this?"

"My instinct after talking to their chief counsel is that they're nervous—very nervous in fact; I think they may be willing to agree to a sizeable settlement in order to make this all disappear. Bad publicity means a drop in donations which, as you know, institutions like PPTH survive on."

"I hope you're right," House told him with a sigh. "This is one of the last links to a time in my life I want to leave behind for good."

"I'm sure. We'll see you tomorrow, Dr. House."

House hung up without saying good-bye. His mind was so full that even he, with his incredible intellect, found it difficult to sift through it all. He looked over the list again. There was something about it that resonated but he simply couldn't put a name to it and that irritated him. A knock on his door interrupted his stream of thought.

"What?" he called sharply. The door opened and Kirkland ginger walked in like he was afraid of infuriating his liege and in risk of being sent to the block.

"I tried to…borrow a ball from Pediatrics but the charge nurse caught me and made me put it back," the P.A. announced, looking slightly shame-faced. "I had to improvise." He opened his fist and held out a round object for House's inspection.

The diagnostician scowled a little and picked up the multicolored spherical object, lifting it to eye level to investigate. His eyebrows shot up and he looked back to Kirkland questioningly.

"A rubber band ball?"

Kirkland's eyes shifted to the ceiling and he nodded. "Uh, yeah. Its bounce is a little wonky but otherwise it's not bad."

House was amused and a little impressed at his ingenuity but did let on that he was. "You just spent the last half-an-hour making this thing?"

The P.A. squirmed a little under his boss's scrutiny but managed to maintain eye contact. "Uh, well, the first fifteen minutes were spent trying to steal—I mean, borrow a ball from Pedes but when that didn't pan out I spent five minutes hunting for enough elastic bands—"

"—And _borrowed_ a few," House cut in helpfully, still managing to hide his smile.

"Uh, yeah," Kirkland agreed. "The last ten minutes or so were spent, uh, actually constructing…the…ball. Yeah."

House turned the rubber band ball around in his hand and pretended to study it closely, allowing him to sweat it out a bit longer.

"Hmm…I give it a B plus for effort and an A minus for ingenuity," the diagnostician told him soberly. "Good job. You may go."

Kirkland actually sighed and visibly relaxed before returning to his desk and more pressing matters. Once he was gone House smiled in humor and tossed the makeshift ball into the air and caught it behind his back the brought it back around to toss it again when he froze. He looked at the ball. It was made up of three different colors of bands, red, yellow and blue. It was little more than a tangle of colored bands wrapped around something in the center to form the core…

His eyes widened as the answer appeared before his eyes. House clutched the ball tightly and rushed out of his office as quickly as he could with a bum leg and a cane. When the elevator car arrived upon his request and opened he saw Dr. Bell standing there. As soon as she saw him she started to speak and step out of the elevator but House hooked her arm with his cane as he stepped into the otherwise empty car to keep her on board with him. He hit the floor button with his cane.

"Dr. House, I was coming to tell you that the patient is too unstable to be moved to the MRI." Bell told him, frowning questioningly.

"Forget the MRI," House told her. "I need a portable ultrasound and page the rest of the team to meet me in the patient room. I know what it is."

"You do?" Bell perked up with a smile. "That's great—what is it?"

"Uh uh, no previews," House told her. "You'll have to wait for the movie like everybody else—but here's a clue." He tossed the rubber band ball in her direction and she grabbed it out of the air. She looked at him uncertainly for a moment then turned her attention to the ball, turning it over and over again in her hand.

"Three separate systems affected," House said to the ceiling of the elevator car. "Neurological, endocrine _and_ cardiac with the involvement of Paraneoplastic encephalitis—"

"Oh my God! How could I have missed it?" Bell exclaimed, shaking her head at herself. She handed the ball back to House who stuck it into his jacket pocket. When the elevator stopped, House got off but Bell stayed on to go and acquire the ultrasound machine and assemble the rest of the team.

**(~*~)**

House had to walk past both Danny Wilson's and Justin Clee's rooms to reach his patient's. Making his decision was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do; he was in love with both the oncologist and the vascular surgeon and didn't want to hurt either one. Clee was brilliant, musical, sophisticated, caring, faithful, and real. If he told you something you knew it was absolutely true, and he would keep his promises if it was at all humanly possible. Life with him was peaceful, consistent, secure. Wilson was also brilliant, funny, quirky, unpredictable, compassionate, and caring. When House was with him he was always on the edge of his seat, uncertain, excited, aroused and fascinated. There was never a dull moment with him, but there was the anxiety of not knowing how long he would stick around again before he pushed House away or ran away. There was also the fact that Wilson had cheated on at least one of his wives and more probably two of them. House didn't know if that would be a problem for them, too.

So it was a matter of balances: Security or risk, steadfastness or unpredictability, trust or suspicion, faithfulness or fascination. He had been certain of what he wanted that morning when the sex endorphins were still in his system but now…now his brain was in control again and with that, a more objective perspective.

As he passed by Wilson was standing right outside Danny's door engaged in what appeared to be a serious conversation with Alex and his parents. They were oblivious to his scrutiny. Wilson had his hands on his hips, looking like Superman again, and House knew that he took that pose when he was frustrated and trying to argue something—or lecture House—whichever the case may be. Their conversation seemed to be ending and House turned away so that his spying wasn't revealed.

"House?"

He faced the address with an innocent expression pasted onto his face.

Wilson closed the distance between them, smiling alluringly. He was a master at that as proven by the way House's reacted to him. He took House's shoulders and kissed him on the mouth; House's body stiffened slightly and he pulled out of the kiss quickly.

"Got a few minutes?" Wilson asked him.

"Probably less than two," House answered. "My team is meeting me here right away."

"Oh, right," Wilson said, nodding. "You're working a case."

"Not anymore. I've just solved it and now I have to explain it to the patient, her husband and my team," House said with an air of smugness.

Wilson took House's hands. "Of course you did. I just had a couple of questions to ask you about St. Luke's but it can wait till later. Are you free for lunch?"

"Sure. How about I order something in? We can eat in my office. There's something important that I need to talk to you about."

"Sounds like a plan." The oncologist squeezed House's hand. House gently extricated it from Wilson's grasp.

House heard the sound of something rolling along the floor toward them and looked over Wilson's shoulder to see Bell with the ultrasound machine followed by Preston and Ferry. He exhaled, leading Wilson to turn around to see what he was looking at.

"The new team, I take it."

"Yup. Gotta go to work now. Meet me at my office at eleven. Fifth floor, Unit 58 room 203 in the L-wing. It's the door with my name written on a piece of masking tape that's been stuck to it—my temporary office until my department renovations are complete. If you scratch Kirkland behind the ears he'll fetch a cup of coffee and magazine for you."

"Who's Kirkland?"

House's eyes followed his team as they passed him and went into Moore's room. "My P.A.—well, my temporary P.A. but I think I'm going to steal him from Human Resources. He makes better coffee than Cameron ever did—and without the crushing."

"You've got a P.A.? You have room in your budget for one here?"

"Yeah," House confirmed with a nod. "I'm appreciated here—who'd a thunk it?"

Before Wilson could comment further House turned and followed his team into his patient's room.

"I'm Dr. House," he announced, approaching the bed. "I'm the one who's responsible for Huey, Louie and Dewey here."

His team glared at him for the nicknames. He sighed silently. Newbies; he hated breaking them in.

Mr. Moore looked frustrated. "What the hell is going on here? First you tell us that she has encephalitis and you start treating her but then she gets sicker and you say she also has thyroid problems but you don't know how they are connected _if _they're connected. Now her heart has stopped and she had to be shocked back to life? Do you people know what's wrong with her or not?"

"Jerry, calm down," the patient weakly told her husband from beneath her oxygen mask. She was barely audible. It was obviously one of her more lucid moments.

"Patricia, I'm just looking out for you. I'm worried about you."

"I know…but you need to take…a step back and…take a deep breath."

"You should listen to your wife," House told him calmly. Jerry glared at him but that didn't deter the diagnostician. "No, seriously, take a deep breath. You're hyperventilating and are ten seconds away from passing out."

Dr. Ferry took the husband aside and helped him to regulate his breathing while Bell and Preston set up the ultrasound equipment. House grabbed a stool and set it beside the bed then sat down.

"If I'm correct about something here then I know what's wrong with you, Penny." House told her.

"It's Patricia," Preston corrected him.

"Whatever," House dismissed, rolling his eyes. "I'm going to open your gown to expose your lower abdomen so I can use this machine to take an ultrasound scan of what's going on inside," House informed her as he did it. He could tell she was uneasy but too weak and frightened to object. Bell handed him the tube of conductive gel. He squirted a generous amount on Patricia's lower abdomen. She flinched at how cold it felt. House picked up the scan head and placed it to her abdomen, moving it around on the gel as he watched the monitor.

"If I'm right, then somewhere in your abdomen, most likely in the vicinity of your internal lady parts, you have an unwelcome mass that is increasing in size rapidly. The most likely location would be on or in one of your ovaries. If not there than your fallopian tubes, uterus or the connective tissue that holds everything in place in your abdominal cavity."

"You mean…like a tumor?" she asked.

"No, not _like_ a tumor," he answered, zeroing in on what he was looking for. "An _actual_ tumor, the genuine article. Ri-i-i-ght there!" He pressed a button to freeze the image and record a still. On the right round ligament holding her right ovary in place was a four centimeter mass. Bell just shook her head, apparently still angry at herself for not thinking about this possibility. Preston and Ferry looked over House's other shoulder. House turned the monitor so Patricia and Jerry could see.

"That little spot right at the tip of that pointer arrow on the left hand side of the screen is a four centimeter pain in the ass called a teratoma."

"Of course…" Preston murmured.

"What's a teratoma?" Jerry demanded, frowning. "Is it a type of cancer?"

"In some cases, yes. There are different types of teratomas but one thing they all have in common is that they are disgusting growths that are like something you'd see in a _Ripley's Believe It or Not! _museum. Some are called dermal teratomas which are benign masses made up skin and hair and teeth—literally—that can cause pain. Some, however, are a whole lot nastier. They are derived from undifferentiated cells like those found in an embryo as it matures and becomes a fetus. At the teratoma stage the cells have begun the process of differentiation into the various tissue and organ types found in the human body but are still early in the process. One teratoma can composed of a number of different tissue types. They can also be malignant, which means the Big C…and they can multiply and spread very rapidly to nearly any part of the body. In your case, the teratoma I have located here contains brain tissue, thyroid tissue and cardiac, or heart, tissue."

House turned the monitor back to him and moved the scan head along her abdomen again; he then cringed, pointing out two more teratomas, both on her left ovary, to his team. "Because yours is a cancerous form that spreads quickly your body's immune system recognized cells that didn't belong and began to form antibodies—cell killers or as I like to call them, bouncers—for these party crashers to beat the shit out of them and kick them out of the club. However, your bouncers got pumped up by smashing crasher heads, got carried away, and started to smash up the different areas of the club as well. They began to trash the office and the computer system there, a.k.a. your brain; the sound system that transmitted music from the DJ to the speakers blasting out the beat otherwise known as your endocrine system and in particular your thyroid; and the delivery guy bringing booze to restock the bar to be bought by the partiers throughout the club—that would be your heart in case you didn't get the metaphor. Healthy brain, thyroid and cardiac tissues in your body are being destroyed, thus your symptoms. It's known as Paraneoplastic Syndrome and it's an autoimmune disorder associated with cancer."

Patricia and Jerry looked at each other for a moment or two, speechless.

"So my wife has cancer?" the husband asked when he found his voice again.

House stared at him for a moment and opened his mouth to make a scathing comment but at the last second kept it to himself rather than waste his breath. "I believe that's what I just said," was his self-censored answer.

"Is there treatment for it?" the patient asked.

"Bell, take the floor," House told the oncologist, rising from the stool. He grabbed his cane and limped to the nearby sink to wash his hands while she wiped the gel off of Patricia's belly with a cloth and explained that the tumors would be excised surgically and her symptoms treated corticosteroids until the immediate danger passed and she was stable enough to pursue cancer treatment. Patricia would then be transferred to the care of one of the doctors in the Oncology department to discuss further treatment options for the cancer like chemotherapy and the like. Satisfied that she had covered the bases appropriately, House left the room, leaving the rest of the care to his minions. House had other pressing matters to deal with.

He stopped at Justin's door hesitantly before going in. The surgeon was sleeping with the TV on and the volume down low. House stepped up to the side of his bed and stared down at him fondly.

"I know I'm not supposed to be here yet," House whispered almost inaudibly, "but I had to see you. See, I happen to be in love with you which is making all of this so goddamned difficult because no matter how hard I've tried to stop, I still love Wilson too. Right now he's affectionate and caring and attentive. The problem is I can't relax because I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt but I know him better than he knows himself. This can't last.

"He's only been undergoing treatment for a few weeks but he's still…still deceiving himself if he thinks he's ready to be in a relationship with me. He says he's serious about completing his therapy and continuing it after he's discharged but he disregarded his chaperone's rules despite the fact that the hospital in Houston stretched their own policies to accommodate his visit with Danny; he snuck out to be with me and put himself in a vulnerable position. When he was called to task for it he was easily persuaded to deceive his therapist again. I know, you told me that I shouldn't be conducting experiments using living human beings but I had to know how serious he is about working on his issues.

"I just wanted you to know that I've made some huge mistakes the past couple of days, but one mistake I haven't made is stopping loving you. I've betrayed you…I don't deserve you…Anyway, I needed to see your face and be reminded of just how much you mean to me and how much I stand to lose because I'm a selfish bastard. I just hope you'll be able to forgive me for all of this because if you'll take me back…I choose you."

House turned to leave when he felt a hand grab his, startling him a little. He turned back to see Clee looking at him with misty eyes and a compassionate look on his face.

"You heard all that?" House asked, swallowing hard, trembling slightly.

"Most of it," Clee told him, speaking softly. "Everything from the part where you said that being in love with me has made this difficult on you. I was so caught up in my own hurt that I ignored the fact that you've been hurting too. Listen, I don't know why you think you've betrayed me and I don't want to know—ever—because I realize that by pushing you away like I did I betrayed you first. I'm sorry for that, Greg. I love you. As far as I'm concerned, I'm the one who needs to be forgiven, not you."

"You're out of your mind," House told him. "You had every right to do what you did—"

"Greg," Clee interrupted, "Don't you get it? This isn't about rights, it's about loving you, and trusting you. All you did was come in here and tell me the _truth_ and I punished you for it. I'm the one who should feel ashamed."

House was dumbfounded by his words and reaction. He just stood there, looking at Clee and thinking that if he knew, if he only knew...but he said he didn't want to know. The surgeon wasn't naïve or stupid so that meant that he was willing to overlook anything House had done since last seeing him. It wasn't right. Clee deserved better…

"Greg, come here," Clee told him, waving him over and to bend down. House tentatively did until his face was only a few inches from the younger man's, his eyes searching Clee's for a sign that this was some kind of cruel joke or revenge; there wasn't one.

"Justin, I—"

"I want to make a deal with you," the surgeon interrupted. "If you'll forgive me, I'll forgive you."

Clee gently pulled House's face to him and kissed him deeply, his thumbs caressing House's cheekbones. All the diagnostician could think about was how lucky he truly was as his eyelids closed and he lost himself in the kiss.


	54. Chapter 54 Part 3 Ch 20

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **~5500

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Twenty: Tuesday, July 6, 2010; 10:36 A.M.**

Poking at his slice of pie without enthusiasm he was located by Hutton in the cafeteria in the far corner, all alone. She set her cup of tea down on the table and sat on the chair facing him, folded her arms on the tabletop and leaned forward against it, watching him in silence. House had to have known she was there but showed no indication of that fact. They sat like that for at least a minute before he looked up at her with troubled blue eyes.

"You know." House set his fork down and pushed the otherwise untouched slice of pie in her direction. Hutton smiled weakly at the gesture; here he was, torn over having to choose between two people he loved and he was still silently telling her that she was too thin and needed to eat. She couldn't believe there were people out there that believed that he didn't care about anybody but himself.

"I know."

He nodded, thumbing the rim of his coffee cup. It was difficult for him to start any conversation about his strong emotions and personal life, so Hutton remained silent and patient. She wanted to launch in and tell him what she thought he should do but restrained herself. As much as she hated to do it, she had to admit to herself that Wilson had been right about her objectivity of late.

"Who told you?"

She shrugged, picking up the fork and using it to cut a bite off of the wedge. "I had a feeling Wilson would be seeking your forgiveness and perhaps try to convince you to take him back. I saw him in here yesterday and we had a chat." She stabbed the piece with the fork and put it into her mouth.

"And you're both still in one piece," House commented, sighing. "I'm impressed."

She nodded, chewing and swallowing; it was good apple pie. "I questioned his motives," Hutton confessed. "He admitted to wanting you back but assured me that he wouldn't hurt you. He accused me of not being objective with you. He was right about that. Later I went to visit Justin; I found him sobbing. He told me about your conversation with him, and the choice you had to make. I would have checked in on you yesterday but you were difficult to track down and then last evening you had both of your phones turned off."

"You could have walked over and knocked on the door," he pointed out then took a swallow of his cooling coffee.

"Actually, I did walk over to your place after dinner last night," she admitted, feeling her cheeks warm slightly, "but when I saw the rental car parked in your driveway I put two and two together and figured you were too busy to answer the door. So I went back home."

A sigh escaped the diagnostician and he nodded. "What? No opinion?" he gave her a bitter little smile. "You're not going to tell me that the wise money is on Justin because Wilson isn't good for me and will only be my undoing if I choose him?"

Sighing, Hutton cut off another bite of pie. "Of course I have an opinion; I wouldn't be human if I didn't. I was going to tell you exactly what I felt you should do but then I thought about what Wilson said about my objectivity. So I'm going to keep what I think to myself."

One of his well-manicured fingernails scraped at tiny spot of dried ketchup on the table top. It occurred to Hutton for the hundredth time that House's hands were always in motion, likely his way of venting pent up anxiety.

"That would be a first," he muttered, refusing to look up at her. She was chewing and couldn't respond right away but had an indignant look on her face. "If you're worried I'm going to have a meltdown, don't be. Surprisingly, I'm okay."

Her eyes glanced at the hand House was now using to drum out a rhythm on the table. He must have noticed where her eyes went and stilled his hand.

"Good," Hutton told him with an approving nod after swallowing, letting his jab at her go unanswered. "Would that be due to the fact that you've made your decision?"

House took another swallow of his coffee before responding. "I think I may have." He leveled his eyes on hers. "And no, I'm not going to tell you or anyone else until I've talked to Wilson and Justin first."

"Wise choice," she agreed, forking the pie. "This is good pie; needs ice cream, though."

He gave her a nod, finished his coffee and then stood up. "Gotta go. I have an appointment to keep."

She watched House limp away, leaning on his cane quite heavily, his shoulders hunched. The man was still carrying a huge burden; she hoped he could hold up under it. Hutton didn't envy him his situation in the least. He was still very vulnerable; she would have to keep a closer eye on him, just in case he did have a crisis in the making. With that in mind she stuffed another bite of pie into her mouth.

**(~*~)**

Wilson arrived at House's office and was greeted by Kirkland who was almost too friendly, even for Wilson. It still surprised him a little that House would have a personal assistant in the first place. At Princeton-Plainsboro he had made his fellows do his paperwork and other sundry duties House had considered beneath his genius. It wasn't that the oncologist felt House didn't need or deserve a PA but it did seem out of character for him. Wilson turned down the coffee offer and sat down in one of the chairs sitting just outside the office door.

He had to admit that St. Luke's was a very efficient, smooth-operating hospital and the names on the medical staff board in the lobby were all very reputable and accomplished in their chosen fields. Dr. Roth, the hospital's chief administrator, seemed to run a tight ship, but that didn't seem to bother the staff in the least. Everyone he'd talked to had claimed to be satisfied with their working conditions and had agreed that Roth was a strict but fair man to work for. He'd created for himself a reputation for standing up for the rights of his medical and non-medical staff and being nobody's whipping boy—not even when it came to the Board of Directors. In return for his loyalty the people who worked for Roth were loyal to him. It was quite the opposite of what working at PPTH had been like under Cuddy's leadership for the last two years.

House also had a reputation and Wilson was curious as to how well he fit in a work environment like St. Luke's.

"So how long have you and Dr. House been friends, Dr. Wilson?" Kirkland asked him pleasantly as he sorted through mail at his desk.

"A long time," Wilson told him. "I worked at the same hospital with him for almost fifteen years and we were friends before that. So, how do you like working for Dr. House?"

"I'm enjoying it," the PA answered with what appeared to be a genuine smile. "Of course, I'm only on loan from human resources. Once Dr. House has the opportunity to hire a PA of his own then I'll be off to wherever I'm needed next. He's one of the best doctors I've worked for in a while."

Wilson's eyes narrowed slightly. Had House anticipated that he would be checking up on him and bullied Kirkland into giving him a glowing review?

"Why is that?"

"He's clear about what he expects of me, is detailed in his instructions and doesn't send me out to run extra-hospital errands like I'm his personal slave. In fact, he rarely if ever sends me to get him coffee or lunch and is appreciative when I do it without being asked."

His eyes opening wider than usual, Wilson stared at Kirkland, trying to find some clue as to whether this was a fabrication or not but he gave up quickly. He wasn't House, after all. Kirkland's description of House's behavior was more than surprising. Wilson was skeptical; he made it sound like House wasn't, well…_House_.

"Really? Hmm." Wilson leaned forward almost conspiratorially. "Okay, what is he holding over you to make you lie to me?"

Kirkland frowned, recoiling slightly. "I'm sorry?"

Wilson smirked. "I know House better than anyone and the man you described just now is nothing like him. Come on, you can tell me—I won't tell him you said anything."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Dr. Wilson," Kirkland replied genuinely, "but I haven't been lying to you and Dr. House isn't holding anything over me to influence how I talk about him. He _is_ a little eccentric at times but that's to be expected with someone who is rumored to be a genius."

"Eccentric how?" Wilson probed certain that there was more than what Kirkland was telling him.

"Well, take this morning, for example," was the reply. "He was in his office working when he came out and told me that he needed me to find him a ball because a woman's life depended on it. He didn't go into how exactly having a ball would affect the life of someone and quite frankly, I thought that perhaps the strain of having his boyfriend in ICU and the stress of his current case had become a little too much for him but I went to get him a ball. I nearly got my clocked cleaned by a nurse when I tried to steal one from Pediatrics so I made him one out of rubber bands instead. I made a lot of them as a kid. He found it amusing but acceptable and then all of a sudden got this look on his face like something important had just occurred to him and he took off, no explanation offered."

"He had an epiphany," Wilson told him, nodding knowingly. "The most trivial-appearing object, word or incident can set one off. It's when he figures out the puzzle."

"Puzzle?"

"The answer, the diagnosis he's been looking for," Wilson explained. "Patient's aren't really people to him—they're puzzles that need to be solved. His obsession is solving them, answering the question 'Why?' It's what gives him a sense of purpose. Once he has the diagnosis he doesn't care about what happens to the patient after that."

"Oh." Kirkland didn't appear convinced of that. He shrugged.

"You mentioned something about Dr. House's boyfriend?" Wilson pointed out questioningly. "Are you talking about Dr. Clee?"

"Yes," Kirkland confirmed, smiling again. "If you don't mind me saying so, Dr. House and Dr. Clee make a cute couple and it's obvious when you see them together that they're crazy for each other. Dr. Clee was shot and nearly killed a couple of days ago. Dr. House took all his calls in Dr. Clee's room in ICU. My guess is that Dr. House didn't want to be somewhere else in the hospital should something go wrong with him. You don't see devotion like that much anymore."

"No," Wilson agreed, frowning slightly. Hearing from a casual observer how much House appeared to care for Clee roused the green-eyed monster in him. He had never even met the surgeon face to face but still hated him nonetheless. It didn't matter, now. He and House were together and that's all that mattered.

House was five minutes late when he arrived juggling a bag of takeout and a cup carrier with two sodas in it in his left hand because his right hand had his cane.

"Damned delivery boy wouldn't deliver it to my office. I had to go down to the lobby to pay him and get the food," House gripped irritably, "then the moron stood there waiting for a tip. I gave him a _tip_—instructions on how to go fuck himself." Kirkland was up and opening the office door for him in a flash. Wilson was impressed. He followed House and the PA in; the oldest of the three set the food down on his desk.

"Do you want me to hold your calls, Dr. House?" the PA asked him.

House nodded, "Yeah." He reached into the plastic bag and pulled out a container and a set of chopsticks and held them out to his assistant. "Kirkland—Mushu Pork is your favorite, right?"

Kirkland's eyes widened in mild surprise. "Yes, that's right—how did you know that?"

House shrugged. "I heard you tell that cute ginger with the great rack from Accounting you were trying to pick up last week."

Taking the food from House Kirkland smiled appreciatively. "Thank you—it wasn't necessary but I appreciate it."

"Whatever," House said a little gruffly. "Shut the door on your way out."

"Sure thing," the PA replied, before leaving and pulling the door closed behind him.

Wilson stared at House as if he'd found the cure for cancer or had performed some other extraordinary feat. The diagnostician found it irritating for some reason.

"What?" he asked gruffly.

"Wow," was all Wilson said.

House rolled his eyes at that and proffered a container of food to the oncologist. "Shut up and take your Tofu in Black Bean Sauce. Jesus, can't a guy show a little consideration without someone making a big deal about it?"

"Gregory House doesn't do considerate," Wilson said, accepting his food and sitting down, "_or_ generous. _You_ paid. I feel like I've stepped into the Twilight Zone."

Huffing at that House sat down with his food, elevated his legs on his desk and winced as his leg protested. He had to stop running around the hospital like a chicken with its head cut off. Fingering his chopsticks he dug around in his box, not feeling particularly hungry anymore.

"Sorry. I left my Rod Serling imitation in my other pants."

Smirking, Wilson concentrated on eating. House took a bite of his, chewing it without enthusiasm. It tasted fine but to House it was like chewing cardboard; eating was the last thing he had on his mind. He had to do perhaps the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life, he was pretty certain of the outcome, and it wasn't going to pleasant. It had to be done though. He couldn't continue to lead Wilson on; it wasn't fair to either of them. He forced himself to ignore the guilt he felt; Wilson knew that he was still trying to figure out what to do when he came over the night before, and he knew exactly which buttons to push to seduce him—and they were big, blazing red buttons to begin with. Not that House was trying to completely absolve himself. He could have said no, should have said no, should _never_ have allowed this morning to happen; but he'd needed to know; to be certain that his suspicions were right.

He watched Wilson eat knowing how hard this was going to be on him and worried that his decision might set off another drinking binge—but House promptly reminded himself that Wilson was responsible for his own behaviors. His sobriety was his and if he chose to throw it away, that was his prerogative. It wasn't House's responsibility or guilt to assume if that happened.

"Okay, you're watching me like an amoeba under a microscope," Wilson said, looking directly at the diagnostician. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

A sad smile touched House's lips; he set his food down. "So how much shit are you _really_ in for sneaking over to my place last night?"

Shrugging, the oncologist gave him a crooked smile. "Alex determined that he erred in allowing me to come here, that I'm not ready yet, and that we're returning to Houston this evening. If I refuse to go then that will be taken as my withdrawal from the program."

House frowned. "You _are_ going back with him, right?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," Wilson told him, tapping his plastic fork against his lower lip thoughtfully.

The knot in House's stomach was only getting tighter. "There's nothing to talk about. You go back with him and you finish rehab and any outpatient follow-up that they recommend. End of discussion."

"I plan to do that," the younger man assured him, "but I want to do that here in Pennsylvania where I'm close to Danny and can be with you when the inpatient part of my recovery is over."

"Where are you planning on doing that?" House asked.

"I was considering Mayfield. If they don't have a bed at the moment then I'll enter a support group in the area until one does," Wilson answered confidently. "I can stay away from alcohol on my own long enough to wait for a bed. House, I'm not abandoning treatment, I'm just moving where I get it."

Blue eyes moved from Wilson's face to a spot on the far wall while House struggled to control his temper and say what he really meant rather than what came out as emotion. He was only partially successful. "You moron! Unless Nolan can get you a bed right away you'll go to support group once or twice then stop going and your sobriety will last maybe two weeks. If you were able to stay sober on your own you wouldn't have become an alcoholic in the first place! You wouldn't have needed to go to rehab at all. You'll find a way around the rules and end up back to where you were before you went to get treatment. Don't be an idiot! Listen to Alex—you're not his first patient and you won't be his last—and go back with him."

"I'll have you to help me," Wilson argued, smiling beguilingly.

"And who will be there to help _me_? You'll be leaning on a one-legged man standing on a tight rope without a harness or net underneath." The diagnostician lowered his legs from his desk and rose to his feet in spite of the stiffness of his muscles and the pain. He took his cane in hand and began to pace the room. "I'm not in any position to support you and help you with your issues when I'm struggling to deal with my own. We'll both fall to our doom. You have to go back with Alex—unless you're not really serious about dealing with your issues and you've been telling me what you think I want to hear to persuade me that we belong together."

Wilson rose from his seat as well and stood in front of House to block his pacing. He put his hands on the older man's shoulders and moved closer until they were standing only an inch or two apart. House tensed at the proximity.

"I _am_ serious," Wilson said, practically cooing. "Last night and this morning convinced me that we can do this, we'll make it work. I'm not going to throw that away by not following through with treatment."Wilson's arms slowly snaked around House's neck. "Don't you want this as soon as possible?"

He covered House's mouth with his. House didn't kiss back; instead he pulled Wilson's arms down from around his neck and stepped back, putting some space between them. His stomach churned with nausea and a very strong urge inside of him to capitulate to Wilson waged war with his mind telling him that to do so would mean ruin for both of them. House prided himself on being a logical man; yes, he was learning to listen to his emotions and accept them but the past couple of days he'd been allowing them to have too big of an influence on the decisions he'd made. It was time to listen to his brain rather than his heart.

"Wilson," House said so softly that he was practically whispering; his voice was quavering uncontrollably, "_this_…you and me… It's not going to work."

Wilson's look of confusion turned to disbelief and then a scoffing smile. "What's this all about, House? Is this some kind of joke?"

Swallowing hard the diagnostician forced himself to meet Wilson's gaze and keep it in spite of the fact that it was incredibly painful for him.

"No. It's no joke. I've decided that I'm staying with Justin."

The amusement on Wilson's face disappeared and for the first time uncertainty replaced it.

"But…what—last night we made—"

"A mistake," House finished for him somberly. "My mistake. I should have expected that you would try to influence my decision by making contact with me despite the fact that I told you that I needed time to think. I should have been better prepared."

"No," the oncologist argued, shaking his head, his hands going to his hips. "No, it was no mistake. We both wanted it—we needed it! It was right. We made love and it was beautiful—House! We belong together. It's…it's the natural order of things. It's fate."

"Oh, well, why didn't you say so?" House retorted sarcastically. "Why don't you throw in that it's the will of God while you're at it? 'Cause that _always_ works with me."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah," House agreed resignedly, "that's the problem; I know _exactly_ what you mean."

Wilson stared at him, bewildered. "What happened since this morning? We held each other and shared how much we love each other."

House turned away from him. How could he explain to Wilson that he was in no position to be in a relationship with anybody much less him? What words would get through to him that until he got his life together and began to seriously address the issues that have interfered with his ability to commit, to stand up for himself, and to accept responsibility for the way he's used and hurt people over the years he would never be satisfied in any relationship, including one with House?

It would have been a lot easier for House to simply make up a lie; to be cruel and tell Wilson that he didn't love him anymore, that he was simply using him, telling him what he wanted to hear for some free sex while Justin was out of commission. He could claim this was payback for Wilson dumping and humiliating him. That way House could allow him to leave thinking that he was blameless, that he was okay and that the diagnostician was simply the heartless, selfish son of a bitch everybody always said he was. He could just wash his hands and not think about how Wilson might leave feeling worthless and unlovable and wind up either killing himself slowly with alcohol or quickly with pills, a noose, or even a gun; or continue through his life racking up one failed relationship after another never understanding why, dying a lonely, miserable man. It would be so much easier than trying to explain to him the truth.

The problem with that, however, was that House loved Wilson too much to watch him leave just as lost as ever. That's why he turned back around and looked him in the eye.

"That's not the problem."

Wilson's mouth wanted to smile hopefully but couldn't. "So what is? What do I have to do to convince you not to give up on us?"

"You have a lot of work to do to get to the point where you can have a successful relationship with another person," House tried to explain, having to continually swallow back the growing urge to cry. "You disregarded my need for time and came over to my house to pressure me anyway; my need didn't fit your agenda so you treated it as worthless. Alex put his ass on the line to get approval for you to come see Danny; he's volunteering his personal time to make that possible and you treat his authority like a joke. You still think that you can control yourself and not be tempted by alcohol in spite of the fact that you've shown that you can't. Until you start to take your need for help seriously, you'll live in denial, shirk personal responsibility and culpability and fuck up your relationships. I don't want to be one of those relationships you fuck up and then be the one you blame for it."

"No…no, don't you dare—_I'm_ the one who disregards other peoples feelings and needs?" Wilson asked incredulously, pointing a finger at himself. "You've never given a shit about what I feel or need! You didn't care that I wanted to make my relationships work or that I actually loved the women I was with—you disregarded that and interfered in my relationships anyway. You stole my script pad and put me in a precarious position with the police, remember? You're the selfish asshole! I've put up with your insults and abuse when other people told me that I was insane to be your friend—"

"Here we go again!" House fired back angrily. "Hail Saint Jimmy the fucking martyr! Having to put up with a jerk and asshole like me because if you didn't the sonofabitch wouldn't have a friend in the world! You have no idea how full of yourself you are, you know that? That's part of the fucking problem! You think that without you poor pathetic House will wallow in misery for the rest of his pitiable life! You used my vulnerability to pound that idea into my head until I started believing that bullshit too! Guess what, Jimmy! I have friends here. I'm respected here. I have an incredible job where I'm not micromanaged and questioned constantly and I'm making over twice the money I was at Plainsboro with a shitload of perks I never would have dreamed of receiving from Cuddy; I have an incredibly sexy, intelligent, generous, well-adjusted boyfriend who loves me and believes in me—I'm happier now than I've been my entire life and I did it all _without you! _I may not have been a stellar friend but you were no fucking picnic either. I never tossed _you _aside when someone 'better' came around and then justified it by blaming you."

"You're unbelievable!" Wilson yelled. "Without me you wouldn't even be alive after your reckless experiments on yourself. I covered for you, nursed you, protected you—"

"And you've never failed to remind me over and over again, no matter how humiliating it is for me—but that's the point, isn't it? Get this through your head—_I don't need you_. Before you returned to visit Danny I was the closest thing to happy I've ever been and starting to get my life straightened out. You arrived and my life began to unwind all over again. I can't be with you without reverting back to the self-hatred and insecurity and false-guilt and I refuse to go back to that hell. You can't stop thinking about yourself as my messiah when you're around me. I'm passed that fucking shit and you have the opportunity to get past it too but until you get that through your head get help, you'll always be stuck. I should know, because I was there. But I didn't stay there."

"Of course," Wilson argued. "You're the great Gregory House and the universe revolves around you! You can do anything, know everything and are always right!"

"No. I just grew some balls and was willing to man up to my issues and face them, deal with them instead of running away when it got hard. I accepted the fact that I was truly fucked up and needed help to pull myself back together. I didn't cling to denial and run away like a chicken-shit. Until you realize that you need to do the same thing your problems will always be someone else's fault and nothing in your situation will change."

House took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He expected Wilson to take advantage of the break to launch another attack and was mildly surprised when he didn't. Instead Wilson stood with his one hand on his hip and his head down. His other hand rubbed away at the tension in the muscles at the back of his neck.

"You can do it, Wilson," House told him much more gently. "You're brilliant, talented and stronger than you think. You can find the courage to face the bullshit and deal with it. You can pull your life back together and move on, but you can't do it alone. And it won't happen until you're serious about it. You have the opportunity in your hands—don't waste it."

"I don't know if…I can…without you," the oncologist said softly, shaking his head and slowly lifting it to face House. His eyes and face were wet with tears and it took everything House had not to go over and pull him into his arms and get hooked back into the cycle again. If this was going to work for Wilson, he had to do it for himself without House.

"I do," House replied.

"When did you stop loving me?" the younger man asked him.

"I haven't," the diagnostician told him. "But love isn't enough. There has to be mutual trust and respect, communication…we were co-dependent for so long that's all we knew and became so ingrained that now, when we're together, we automatically fall back on our old behavior patterns."

"We really are toxic for each other, aren't we?" Wilson asked, hurt infusing every syllable.

House smiled sadly, nodding. "I will always love you, Wilson. That's why I won't enter a relationship with you and I'm letting you go. You need to do the same."

"I can't imagine my life without you in it," Wilson told him, his voice breaking.

"Not yet," the diagnostician told him, having thought the same thing once. "But with help, you will."

"Twenty years, House. Do you really want to throw them away?"

House swallowed hard, his eyes stinging. He fought the tears. "I'm not throwing them away. They'll always be with me—but it's time for me to focus forward now."

Wilson brushed his tears away and nodded. He stepped toward House but stopped a safe distance away and two sorrowful brown eyes met House's blues. After a moment he extended his hand to the older man. House grabbed it and shook it, not wanting to let go but doing so anyway.

"I'm not going to say good-bye," Wilson told him, his voice thick with emotion. "Take care of yourself. Be happy."

"You, too," House told him. "Uh, just to warn you, I told Kirkland to get Alex. He's waiting outside for you. You shouldn't be alone right now."

Wilson snorted in bitter amusement, then turned without another word and walked out of the office, shutting the door behind him.

House just stood there, staring at the door for an indeterminate amount of time.

"Good-bye, Wilson," he whispered, and a tear finally managed to make it out of his eye and down his scruffy cheek.

It seemed unreal, somehow, but he knew it was real. He hoped Wilson would make the right choices and end up okay but knew that ultimately it was up to him. After about ten minutes House took a chance and poked his head out the door. Wilson and Alex were gone. Kirkland looked up from his laptop.

"Do you need…anything?" It was obvious that the PA had some idea of what had happened behind the office door but was wise enough not to go there.

"No. I'll be in Dr. Clee's room. I can be reached there if necessary."

"Yes, Doctor."

House knew that Alex was going to take Wilson somewhere private where they could talk so the coast was clear. House needed someone to keep him from falling apart, too, and who better to do that than the man he loved passionately and wanted to spend the rest of his life with?

He limped slowly and heavily, slightly stoop-shouldered, for the elevator.

**A/N 2:** **A shorter chapter because it's so emotionally packed and it only feels right to end the chapter here.**


	55. Chapter 55 Part 3 Ch 21

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Twenty-One: Wednesday, July 7, 2010; 10:55 A.M.**

House sat next to Clee's bed, holding the other man's hand in his. Clee was awake and more alert than he had been since the shooting. He was steadily improving and if he continued to do so he would be moved to a regular ward as early as Friday. The surgeon listened with interest as his partner told him about the meeting with the PPTH lawyers coming up that afternoon in Princeton.

"Vince figures they will want to avoid the negative publicity that a civil trial would have on Princeton-Plainsboro," House said quietly. "and will offer me a settlement to shut me up and make the issue go away. It could be sizable."

"How sizable?" Clee asked.

"Vince figures it could be for as much as 75 million dollars, perhaps more."

"Holy shit!" Clee responded, shocked. "You're kidding me! You told me he said you could maybe get ten million."

"That's before his investigator found the real dirt on them," House responded. "He wouldn't say anything more over the phone last night but apparently the scandal that could be caused should that information be leaked to the police could quite literally shut down the hospital. I don't want that to happen—a lot of people benefit from PPTH every day. I hope their greed doesn't lead to that, but I'm not backing down. I can't do that to myself." Shaking his head, the diagnostician smirked. "Anyway, apparently my case is open and shut. If it goes to trial, the money is on me winning and receiving a reward nearly double that, particularly since Cuddy illegally dismissed several other staff members at the same time and it can be proven that there were shady dealings concerning my salary and benefits there as well. Taking too much tax and premium co-payments on my health benefits, that money suddenly disappearing from the database."

"All into an off-shore bank account, no doubt," Clee added wryly. "I know you told me that working there had been a negative experience but every time you tell me more about what took place there the harder it is to believe that they got away with that for so many years!"

"They figured they had me where they wanted me," House said, shrugging. "I was considered unemployable anywhere else and I believed it so I didn't rock the boat enough to tip it over."

"Well, they were obviously wrong and it only took a smart administrator and business man to see that for all your drawbacks—and personally I don't believe there are very many of those—the benefits of hiring you were far greater."

"I've only been here a short time," House told him. "The longer I'm here the more Roth may regret his decision."

"Why do you do that?" his partner asked him. "Greg, there's nothing wrong with you. Everybody has their strengths and weaknesses. Rational administrators know that. They also don't interfere with your decisions in your field of expertise when they have no idea what they're talking about. You'll always bend and circumvent the rules—that's just you—but if you're given respect and some power to act as needed you'll find that you won't have to bend or go around as many of them."

House said nothing to that.

"There's something more, something that's really bothering you," Clee observed, "and I think I know what it is."

Raising a curious eyebrow House said, "Really?"

Clee nodded. "You're nervous about seeing Cuddy again." When House didn't correct him he went on. "With the board members you never had a personal relationship of any kind, am I right? But with Cuddy you were once friends and you also had romantic feelings for her. You both feel betrayed by the other; it's personal. Also, whether you want to admit it or not, you still care about her well-being and knowing that she has cancer and is in declining health you don't relish seeing her that way."

House was once again amazed at how well Clee understood him; too bad he couldn't let his boyfriend know that. "You couldn't be further from the truth if you tried." He leaned in and kissed Clee tenderly, negating his words somewhat by his actions. He didn't care though; the surgeon's lips had been tempting him most of the morning.

"Hell, I guess I should try to be wrong more often," Clee murmured against his lips before kissing House some more. "You know if the nurse comes in while we're doing this she's going to give you hell for making my heart race."

"Pure jealousy," House replied between kisses. "Your heart…itself…wasn't hit…by the bullet."

"_WHAT IS GOING ON HERE!_"

House nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden belligerent shout from behind him; Clee began to laugh so hard that he was groaning every-so-often from the pain of his incision being disturbed. There were tears in his eyes. House swung around to see who it was he was about to murder; Bonnar stood in the doorway, nearly doubled over in laughter. Turning back to Clee House fought the urge to chuckle at his own expense and instead gave his lover a death glare.

"You asshole-you saw her coming and set me up!" House growled, though secretly impressed; he wasn't easily pranked or startled.

"Oh, god…you…should have seen…your face!" Clee told him. "It was classic, Greg."

"I'm sorry, House," Bonnar said, her laughter dying down enough to allow her to speak. "We didn't plan anything. I walked in time to hear Justin mention his nurse and I couldn't resist."

House fought to keep a convincing scowl on his face but simply couldn't, allowing himself a small smile. To Bonnar he said deviously, "You do realize that turnabout is fair play. If I were you I'd watch my back."

"Bring it on," Bonnar told him, narrowing her eyes in a mock-attempt to look intimidating.

"I'd be careful Greg," Clee told him, still grinning. "She's more dangerous than she looks."

House's heart did a back flip looking at Clee's grin. The man was so incredibly sexy without even having to try. Here he was with wires and tubes coming out of his body, hair mussed up, pale, wearing a hideous hospital gown and yet House found him absolutely irresistible. How could there have been any question as to who he wanted to be with? Wilson had brought uncertainty, confusion and pain back with him, but with Clee House felt stable, clear-minded and happy.

"So am I," the diagnostician told him with a smirk. "I should be going. I have a few things to do before Vince gets here. We're driving to Princeton together to go over the case again before the meeting."

Clee raised his hand to rest on House's cheek, caressing it. "I wish I could be there with you to offer moral support."

House turned his face to kiss the palm of Clee's hand. "I'm more in need of _im_moral support; you can make it up to me when you blow this joint by _blow_ing me."

Bonnar cleared her throat. "_Whoa_, TMI! There's a lady in the room, you know."

"Where?" Clee quipped, earning a chuckle from his partner and a glare from the OB/GYN.

"Smart ass," Bonnar muttered good-naturedly.

House leaned forward and kissed the vascular surgeon one more time before getting to his feet and grabbing his cane from where he'd hung in on the back of his chair.

"Good luck, Greg," Clee told him with a wink. House nodded. As he walked past Bonnar on his way out she patted him encouragingly on the back. He didn't acknowledge it; it was still kind of weird for him to be touched in a friendly way (when in the past the only good touch he had experienced was sexual in nature) but it felt nice, like he was finally accepted somewhere. That knowledge would be helpful to him when he returned to a place where he had felt he was tolerated (most of the time) but never appreciated.

**Wednesday, July 7, 2010; 1:49 P.M.**

As he walked through the main door of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital with his lawyer, a wave of anxiety mixed with nostalgia hit him; it smelled like rotting flesh to his nose though he was certain that was simply his imagination, a suggestion brought on by the psychological trauma he'd suffered here for so many years. His stomach was flipping with nausea and his body trembled somewhat. There were so many memories; a few were good, but most of them bad.

He imagined he saw Wilson at the main desk, signing off on charts and requests, picking up his messages and looking up, smiling at him as House approached. From there they walked side by side, shoulders brushing every so often to the elevator which they would take to the fourth floor and part ways at House's office door until lunchtime if not sooner.

House and Elliott walked past the clinic and the former couldn't help but look through the glass doors into the waiting room. As usual the clinic was busy and understaffed. He recognized a couple of the residents working there that afternoon, looking about as thrilled as he ever was at serving his time there. Beyond the waiting room was the Dean of Medicine's office. He'd been in there more often than he could even count, usually to be chewed out for some prank he'd pulled, patient's family member he'd pissed off or crazy, outlandish test or treatment he'd wanted to perform on one of his patients for diagnostic purposes. He couldn't help but smile slightly at the memory of the many arguments he'd had with Cuddy in that office and at the banter and flirtation that had been so much fun before they had had the foolish notion to look at each other as more than friends and sparring partners.

As nostalgic as it all was, House didn't miss this place at all.

When they reached the boardroom Cuddy and Lucas were arriving. Lucas was pushing her in a wheelchair and House fought not to roll his eyes. Way to play the poor, sick woman whose defense was that her disease had made her do it (as opposed to the devil!). She did look thinner and somewhat frailer than before, though. A hat adorned her head to cover the fact that she'd had surgery to remove as much of the tumor on her brain as possible and her skull had been shaved for the procedure. He wondered if she had begun the next stage of treatment yet.

Elliott had warned him not to be suckered in to any war of words or sympathy grab that she or any of the board members and their lawyers might try to engage him in. They would try to sway his thinking and when that failed, trick him into saying something hostile or incriminating that had nothing to do with the facts of the case but could be used against him as far as assessing his character was concerned should it go to trial. Knowing that his mouth was one of his greatest assets and most dangerous liabilities, House acknowledged his lawyer's wisdom in saying as little as possible and allowing Elliott to do the speaking for him.

But it appeared that he was going to have at least some words with Cuddy and her boy-toy because they were headed directly for him.

"Dr. House," Cuddy said to him evenly, though there was coolness to her eyes.

"Cuddy," House responded calmly. Looking at her he didn't feel anger; it was more in the nature of disgust and pity. He looked at her partner, his once-upon-a-time pseudo-friend. "Lucas." he said, fighting the urge to sneer.

"I'm surprised you had the guts to show your face in this hospital again," Lucas said, cocky but there was a wrath under the surface that oozed through his pores. "But you always were ballsy—that is, until you decided to have a hissy-fit and try to jump off the roof. Of course, I suppose you could have just flown away like Tinkerbell."

House stiffened slightly, but that was the only visible reaction that he displayed. Inside he raged at the jab at his bisexuality, the obvious slur that his attraction to men as well as women made him a 'fairy'. House had never actively hid the truth about his sexuality but he hadn't broadcast his alternative sexual preferences for the entire hospital to hear, either.

"Lucas," Cuddy said to him sharply. "What did I tell you about keeping your mouth shut!"

"It's fine," House told her. "He won't be crowing at the end of the day."

"I was wondering if I could have a word with you before this meeting, privately," she asked him, holding her chin up with the same old Cuddy pride.

Knowing that Elliott was within earshot and remembering his counsel, House shook his head. He wasn't a fool. "You can have your word, but not without my lawyer present."

Cuddy sighed. "Have we really come to the point where you can't trust me for two minutes?"

A slow, cynical smile crossed House's lips. "Yes," he told her. "What is it you wanted to say to me? We're going to be going inside right away."

"How is Wilson? I heard about his trouble with alcohol," she said and then asked, "How are you two together?"

"We're not together," House told her matter-of-factly, not convinced that she really gave a damn about how Wilson was doing or any relationship he might be in. She was fishing for something but what that was he had no idea. "He's taking care of his issues and currently resides in Houston."

"Oh," she said, appearing slightly surprised. "When he left here he said that the two of you were a couple. I should have known that that was a lie. I mean, you're not gay—"

"Things didn't work out for Wilson and me," House cut her off, "and we parted ways. I'm bisexual, Cuddy. In fact, I'm currently involved with the sexiest, most intelligent, fascinating man I've ever known. The sex is phenomenal. Is there anything else you wanted to know?"

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" Cuddy asked, shaking her head in dismay.

"My sex life has never been any of your business," he told her. "Why the interest? Is your boy-toy continuing to disappoint in the sack? Well, you're out of luck. I don't think my boyfriend would appreciate me servicing you."

"Don't flatter yourself," she told him coldly.

House sighed. There was a time when he enjoyed sparring with her but now it was so angry, hateful and he was done with her kind of nonsense. "Cuddy, do you remember what you said to me the day of the crane disaster—your little speech where you tried to demean me with your words about my problem?"

"What about it?"

"The only person here stuck in a rut is you," the diagnostician told her. He'd wanted to sound smug and sarcastic but couldn't do it for some unknown reason. "You have a little more than a year to live, Cuddy. Don't you have better things to do in that time than punish me for not calling you the next day twenty-five years ago? For being the man you want but not the one you need? For clinging to a loser like Lucas because you think that all you need is to have the perfect respectable family to make your life complete?"

Lucas bristled but Cuddy gave him a death glare.

House continued without skipping a beat. "Be honest, Cuddy. You know that this fairy tale you have in your head is not you. Since when have you ever needed a man to make your life complete? You've been a firecracker your entire life. Then you started living someone else's dream—needing the baby and the daddy for the baby. Do you want your last days to be miserable trying to be somebody other than the sharp, shrewd, ambitious, sexy woman who took no prisoners and was the only person who could keep me under any kind of control? I wish she'd come back. I miss that iron bitch."

"House," Elliott said to him quietly, "show time."

Nodding in acknowledgement, House looked at Cuddy for a moment longer then limped behind Elliott into the boardroom.

As all the parties involved took their seats, the chairman of the hospital board, another board member, Cuddy and three lawyers on one side of the table, House and Vince Elliott on the other, House's sharp eyes and analytical mind evaluated his opponents carefully. One thing stood out in common among them—the look of anxiety in their eyes. They had game faces: smug, arrogant and self-assured, but their eyes told the true nature of their thoughts. That alone told House that Elliott had been right in his assessment that the hospital was afraid of going to trial—where there would be a shitload of bad publicity and the likelihood that they would lose on top of it all.

The things Elliott had discovered concerning not only House's illegal termination but shady dealings involving salary skimming and benefit fraud concerning him and sixteen other hospital employees astounded—and disappointed—him. Only seventeen examples of this could be proven, but Elliott suspected there were more; perhaps many more. One of the names that signed off on the scam was Lisa Cuddy's.

The first few minutes of the meeting was taken up by technical legal matters that House understood but didn't care about so he paid little attention to it. There was the introduction of the parties sitting around the table, also boring. In fact the meeting didn't begin to capture House's interest until the hospital lawyers began to pound their shields in an attempt to intimidate Elliott and him. He started paying attention in the middle of an 'argument'.

"…contract that he signed stated that it was up to the hospital board to determine whether or not Dr. House was abiding by the sobriety clause put into place when he was reinstated as an employee upon his return from detox and rehabilitation," a Porky Pig-like man named Smythe, lead counsel for PPTH, stated. "When Dr. House was admitted following his first suicide attempt he was drug screened and the results returned positive for codeine."

"Is that a fact?" Elliott responded, a hint of a smirk showing.

"You have a copy of the lab report," Smythe told him, smiling derisively. "That was a direct violation of his sobriety clause and grounds for immediate termination. There was no illegal termination thus any grounds for this suit."

"Are you finished, Counselor?" Elliott said with remarkable restraint. "Because I have evidence to the contrary." From a thick file folder in front of him House's lawyer produced three copies of a notarized document which he passed to the lawyers on the other side of the table. Said lawyers then skimmed through the three page document; House watched their valiant efforts to hide their surprised reactions.

"As you can see, there were two separated blood and urine samples taken that day—one for the hospital's use and the second to be sent immediately to the State laboratory to be screen for drugs as well—an arrangement made by Dr. House since he was also frequently drug screened by the New Jersey licensing board. It was arranged that every time he was tested for the hospital samples for screening would be taken for the State as well. Two tests were done by two laboratories from the State's sample and there was no sign of any opiate or opiate mimicker in either screen. So either Dr. House mysteriously produced opiate tainted blood just for PPTH and tapped a clean reserve for the State or the samples that were analyzed in the hospital lab were contaminated with codeine after they were collected."

"Are you accusing this hospital of falsifying data?" Cuddy spoke up indignantly.

"I'm making no accusations," Elliott responded smoothly. "I'm simply presenting you with cold, hard facts—unless you think that the State licensing board has reason to falsify data on Dr. House's behalf, but I would be careful about making such spurious charges without the evidence to back it up. I simply said that your samples had to have been contaminated; I didn't make any judgment as to whether or not it was a deliberate act to frame my client. However, a jury presented with this information could quite possibly come to that conclusion.

"My investigator also had the opportunity to talk to the phlebotomist from PPTH that collected the blood samples," Elliott went on, "and she told her a very interesting account of what happened. She was called to the ER to take the blood samples for both the hospital and the State. She had already drawn the samples for the State and had labeled them, placing them in her supply case which she takes with her to blood draws outside of the laboratory proper. She had just attached the vial to hold the blood sample for this hospital and was filling it when you, Dr. Cuddy, arrived and demanded that she give you the vial stating that you would take the sample to the lab yourself to ensure that it got there promptly without being lost or tampered with."

Obviously the board members present as well as the attorneys hadn't been made aware of that fact by their reactions and each one of them looked to Cuddy for confirmation and an explanation. Cuddy stared back at them impassively, her jaw set.

"That employee had to have been mistaken," she replied firmly. "I did no such thing."

"Really?" House's lawyer said again, raising a curious eyebrow. He reached into the file folder and pulled out a copy of the sample requisition form the phlebotomist would have received. Next to the sample request in question was a box that was to be initialed by the phlebotomist upon the receipt of the sample by the lab supervisor. The box was initialed. Elliott held the form so Cuddy could easily see it and pointed to said box. "Dr. Cuddy, the employee in question required you to sign off on this form to indicate that you had taken possession of the sample and would be responsible to see to it that it got to the lab in a timely fashion. Are they or are they not your initials in that box?"

Cuddy stared at the form, making no movement for several seconds but House could have sworn that he saw her pulse in her carotid not only become visible but also speed up. At last she looked up and cast House a hateful glare before presenting Elliott the same.

"Yes," she answered so quietly that she was barely audible.

"Speak up, Dr. Cuddy so that everyone present can hear you."

Clearing her throat Cuddy said a little more loudly, "Yes."

The chairman of the board began to shake his head and Smythe looked like he'd been caught with his pants down. If it wasn't for the fact that the woman he had once thought he was in love with was admitting to an action that put in question the integrity of the sample, he would have grinned in satisfaction at Elliott's brilliance. As it was all House could do was stare at his hands folded and resting on the table. He simply couldn't tolerate looking at her.

"You'll also notice that the phlebotomist wrote in the comment box that the sample was drawn at one-twelve a.m. but there is a copy of the record from the lab that says they didn't receive the sample until two-ten a.m.," Elliott pointed out. "That's over forty-five minutes later. I'm certain your average juror would look at that fact and wonder why it took over forty-five minutes for Dr. Cuddy to deliver the blood sample from the emergency room to the lab in the same building. Just out of curiosity, Dr. Cuddy, why _did_ it take you that long to deliver the sample?"

Cuddy's eyes flashed to one of the lawyers sitting closest to her. That lawyer then said quickly, "I've advised my client not to answer your questions at this point in time."

"How convenient," House commented acidly. "What did you do, Cuddy? Take the vial to your office where you had a little codeine stashed in your desk drawer and some of it _accidentally_ jumped from there into the vial? Just how long were you plotting to frame me before that incident? What would motivate you to violate medical ethics and regulations just to harm my reputation?"

Cuddy refused to respond and it was a good thing; House had never punched a woman before but if she'd tried to spin another lie he would have been hard pressed to hold back.

"The police and the DA can worry about what her motive may have been," Elliott told his client as well as the others present. "Even if we remain quiet there are other employees whom you victimized that may not do the same thing."

That caused Lucas to lash out verbally. "You son of a bitch! You have no proof that she put 222 powder into the blood sample!"

House smiled snidely at that. "Nobody said anything about 222s being the source of the codeine, did they Vince?"

Elliott grinned from ear to ear. "No, House, I don't think anybody did."

The lawyers began to whisper amongst each other frantically and Cuddy was glaring murderously at her fiancé.

"Babe—" Lucas began to say in a placating fashion when the whispering stopped and Smythe addressed Elliott and House.

"Gentlemen, my colleagues and I need to peruse the documents you've presented us before we can continue these discussions. We would like to reschedule for another day—"

"No," House said defiantly. "Either we finish this today or we're going to trial. No more shyster bull-shit and delays. I've had enough of this."

"Mr. Elliott," Smythe said, appealing to the lawyer but Elliott put up a hand to stop him and shook his head. "I represent my client and if he wants to proceed to trial, that's exactly what we'll do."

The whispering among the hospital attorneys, the board members and Cuddy started again but were quickly silenced.

"We request that you give us thirty minutes to discuss this and reconvene at that time," Smythe stated.

"I'll give you fifteen minutes, because my client is nothing if not a generous man," Elliott replied, ignoring the snort that came from House. Cuddy rolled her eyes in disgust at that statement but refrained from commenting. One look she gave Lucas was enough to keep his mouth shut as well.

When he had first found out that Cuddy was dating Lucas House hadn't been able to figure out what it was she saw in the private investigator but after everything that had happened since then he had no problem seeing that they deserved each other; they both were snakes in the grass.

Their meeting went into recess. House and Elliott left the boardroom and waited on a bench nearby.

"Now what?" House inquired. With his cane between his knees House began to twist it between the palms of his hand as if he were trying to start a campfire with it.

Elliott appeared to be unconcerned, smiling slightly. "They know we have them," he told House with certainty. "Now they're discussing damage control and exactly how much they are going to offer as a settlement to keep this from going to trial. There will, undoubtedly be a non-disclosure clause to prevent us from going to the media with our evidence of their fraud and medical malfeasance. They can't allow their benefactors to find out about the fraud and extortion they've been practicing or else they'll lose hundreds of millions in donations and grants. So they'll offer a settlement package that includes a gag order."

"So I profit but they continue their criminal activities toward the other employees?" House asked, shaking his head. "Nice."

"Well, just because you and I can't go to the press and gossip about what we know doesn't change the fact that I'm an officer of the court and as soon as I discovered this incriminating information I was ethically bound to report what I knew to the appropriate authorities who will, undoubtedly, begin an official criminal investigation which will likely get out to the press anyway." A sly smile had broadened to cross the lawyer's face. "And just because I called in a couple of favors to make certain that the police don't begin their investigation until after the settlement agreement is signed can't be good for them either."

House grinned diabolically. He had underestimated his attorney's sneakiness. The thought of those shysters and their crooked clients getting the shaft was the best thing he'd heard in a long time, aside from finding out that Clee was going to be okay and that he forgave him.

Fifteen minutes later they all were assembled again in the boardroom. Smythe was the first to speak. "Our clients have decided that allowing this issue to go to trial would be damaging for both parties and are willing to negotiate a settlement agreement with a binding non-disclosure provision. Once Dr. House accepts the settlement offer he will be forbidden to disclose any information gathered and commonly known pertaining to his lawsuit. Of course, his representatives in this matter will also be bound by the agreement."

"Except, of course, should my client be subpoenaed by legal authorities in the progress of any future criminal investigation should be launched," Elliott stressed. "If no such investigation takes place, he would be agreeing to say nothing to anyone about what he knows."

Smythe smirked. "There won't be a criminal investigation since we could easily prove that PPTH and Dr. Cuddy did not commit any criminal acts. Our offer is simply a means to prevent any unfair negative publicity for PPTH."

"That would be quite the accomplishment," House's lawyer told them cynically. "What's your offer?"

"We've been authorized to offer a settlement of one hundred million dollars," the hospital's lead attorney announced. Elliott didn't flinch or give away any other kind of tell that House could see. As for himself, House fought to hide his surprise. This was a considerably higher settlement offer than what Elliott had predicted. Elliott glanced sideways at House with a look that clearly told him to trust him.

Elliott scoffed at the offer. He began to gather up his papers as if preparing to leave. "I thought you were being serious about this, Counselor. Obviously you're not. We'll see you in court."

House played along, rising from his seat. Before they could leave the table the other lawyers huddled the whispered into Smythe's ears.

"Wait," Smythe said. "We _are_ serious. We can go as high as one hundred and ten million."

"One hundred and twenty-five million," Elliott counter-offered calmly, fearlessly. "Not a penny less. With that will be an additional clause to the agreement which states that there will be no further disclosure of Dr. House's personal and employment records to parties outside of this agreement. You will cease all efforts to destroy my client's professional reputation and will submit to the New Jersey Medical Association a statement retracting any and all negative comments and information concerning my client's personal and professional life. Don't bother trying to deny that such communications have been taking place—I have concrete evidence of such activity as well. My client has authorized me to give you an additional fifteen minutes to deliberate if you require it."

Smythe glowered angrily at Elliott and then House in that order. House returned it with a smug smirk. He was enjoying this immensely.

"We agree to your terms," the lead PPTH attorney conceded quietly through gritted teeth.

"Excellent," Elliott responded, reservedly pleased. "Write up the contract and courier it to my office by eight o'clock tomorrow morning so I can go through it before anything is signed. Failure to have it to me by eight o'clock will nullify this verbal agreement and we will be taking this to trial."

The meeting was concluded soon after that. As House and Elliott left the boardroom they waited until the others were out of earshot and then began to laugh.

"One hundred million wasn't enough?" the diagnostician asked incredulously. "How did you know they would go higher?"

Elliott grinned. "I could tell how desperate they were. I really do have a ton of evidence against them and I have a reputation for saying what I mean. I probably could have pressed them as high as one hundred and fifty million but I decided not to press my luck. Congratulations, Dr. House. You're going to become a wealthy man. Not that the money can compensate you for the humiliation and frustration you had to tolerate during the years you worked here but it's better than a kick in the pants."

"Not to mention the fact that a sizable chunk of that goes to you," House added with a smirk

"Yes, there's that, too," Elliott said, chuckling. "Ready to head back to Philly?"

"Actually, can you give me fifteen? There's something I want to do while I'm here."

"Sure," Elliott agreed amicably. "How about I meet you in the cafeteria when you're done?"

"Fine," House agreed. With that he parted from his lawyer and headed for the elevator. He boarded it with a number of interns and student nurses. A couple of them looked at House as if trying to figure out where they'd seen him before.

"Aren't you Dr. Gregory House?" one of the female interns asked as House hit the button for the fourth floor.

"Who?" House responded innocently.

"Dr. Gregory House," she repeated.

"Nope, never heard of him," House told her, straight-faced. "Oh, wait a minute! Wasn't he that incredibly handsome, talented genius that used to head the department of diagnostics?"

"I heard he was a junkie and loose cannon," she replied, shrugging.

"We mustn't be talking about the same man," House told her as the elevator reached the third floor and the female intern and three nurses stepped off. When the elevator reached the fourth floor House was the first one off. It felt incredibly odd to be standing there. It had only been a little over a month and yet it felt like decades had passed since he had walked this corridor as the head of diagnostic medicine. So much had happened to him in such a short time that everything felt that way to him.

He limped his way toward was used to be his office and the differential room adjoined to it. When he reached the glass office door he saw that his name had been removed and Foreman's replaced it. He smirked. From what he'd heard from both Chase and Thirteen, there wasn't much of a department left to lead. Inside he saw that Foreman had redecorated the office to his designer tastes. What was with the man and the color purple? The furniture was a very deep aubergine in color, and all leather. The neurologist sat behind the desk concentrating on the screen of his laptop, a slight frown on his face.

House opened the door and poked his head inside. "Using the symptom checker on WebMD* to diagnose your patients now, Foreman?" he asked snidely.

Foreman looked up from his laptop and upon seeing House he rolled his eyes and shook his head. "That's _exactly_ what I'm doing. What brings you back here, House? Not happy with stealing Chase and Thirteen out from underneath me? Come to snatch my other fellows as well?" His words sounded harsh but his tone of voice sounded more resigned than angry or bitter.

House entered the office completely. "What other fellows?" he asked evenly. "Word has it Cuddy hasn't allowed you to hire new ones because there's talk of shutting down the department completely—budget cutbacks are a bitch, aren't they?"

"There wouldn't be the need for cutbacks if you would drop that ridiculous lawsuit you've filed against the hospital," Foreman told him. "We both know Cuddy and the board had the right to fire you after those stunts you pulled. It's a waste of time and resources seeing as no judge or jury would reward you for damaging the reputation of the hospital you once worked for."

"Well, if you're right, then there's nothing for you to worry about," House responded quickly, trying to repress a smile. "In fact, they'll counter sue for their legal expenses and there will be no need to close you down."

Foreman shook his head. "Come on, admit it: You're only doing this to get back at Cuddy and piss her off for what happened at the disaster site."

"Yeah," House mimicked sarcastically, "that's _exactly_ what I'm doing. I don't have enough to do running my department and supervising two teams, running interference for Chase with the CDC and the DHS, visiting my partner in ICU, attending nightly Outpatient sessions, and preparing to begin a new pain management protocol with an expert in the field; I just _have_ to get back at my former boss for saying mean things to me and hurting my feelings."

That received a snort from his former fellow. "So really—why _are_ you here in my office right now?"

House grew serious. "To do something I never do…offer you my condolences for your brother's death. Marcus had his issues but I…liked him."

Foreman looked back at House in stunned silence for a long moment before slowly nodding.

"Thank you," the neurologist said quietly.

House nodded once curtly and then turned to leave. He opened the door and took a step out before stopping himself and looking back.

"His death wasn't your fault."

There was no verbal response from Foreman who simply offered a shrug.

House walked out of the office and headed for the cafeteria to find Elliott and head for home. He was looking forward to the look on everyone's face when they heard the good news—especially Clee's.

**Wednesday, July 7, 2010; 4:30 P.M.**

The respiratory therapist was just finishing up her session with Justin Clee when House arrived at his room.

"How did he do?" House asked her on her way out.

"Very well," she told him with a pleasant smile. "Yesterday I was a little concerned that he might be coming down with pneumonia but today there is no indication that that is the case. He'll continue to be monitored, of course, but his chest sounds were much better today and he did very well with his exercises, too. Also, yesterday he had a slight elevation in body temperature but today it's back to normal. I'm recommending that he remain on ninety percent oxygen via nasal cannula until his sats pick up to ninety-five or better but ninety-three isn't bad at all at this stage considering the amount of damage he sustained."

Nodding in acknowledgement House turned his attention to Clee as she left the room.

"How did it go?" the vascular surgeon asked his lover as enthusiastically as could be expected under the circumstances.

"Move over," House told him with a directional nod. Clee shifted over, allowing House enough space to carefully climb onto the bed and under the thin blanket beside him. House put his arm around Clee, who moved a little until his head rested back against House's shoulder and House's other arm was wrapped around his torso, holding him close. It was a little awkward but neither of them minded if it meant they could lie with and hold each other.

"Okay, now tell me," Clee demanded. House smiled slightly, pressing a kiss to the top of the younger man's head.

"We came to a settlement agreement," House answered mildly, not allowing his voice to betray either excitement or disappointment. "It's a verbal agreement while they write it up in legalese and our signatures are on the dotted lines which will probably take place tomorrow, Friday at the latest."

"That's good, right?" Clee asked him, frowning almost imperceptibly. "You didn't really want to go to trial, did you?"

"Not as long as they had to cough up enough to hurt them and didn't get away with what they did to me and others who worked at PPTH who were screwed by them."

"But I thought you'd probably have to sign a non-disclosure agreement of some kind."

"Oh, I do," House answered, smirking, "which is why Vince did the _ethical_ thing as soon as he got the goods on them and reported everything he had on them with the police before we met today. He has a friend on the force that is willing to hold off on serving the subpoenas until after the papers are signed. So I won't be able to say anything to anyone unless I'm subpoenaed to testify in a court of law, but there will be a criminal investigation and the press won't be kept at bay by my nondisclosure deal."

Clee laughed; it quickly became coughing. He groaned from the discomfort it caused him in spite of the pain killers he was on.

"You okay?" House asked him, concerned.

"Yes," was the answer as Clee nodded and the coughing subsided. "That sneaky bastard!"

"As an officer of the court he had to report any criminal activities he became aware of," House replied in mild protest, smirking in amusement. "You haven't asked me yet what the amount of the settlement is."

"I was getting there," Clee responded with an eye roll and grin. "How much?"

House hesitated purposefully until Clee pinched his flank, making House flinch and recoil a bit.

"Okay…they offered me 100 million dollars."

"Oh my _god_! You're lying to me!"

House shook his head, smiling now. "Nope. Except, Vince told them that that was an insult in which case they came back with another offer."

House waited again, enjoying the growing look of impatience on his partner's face.

"Oh, for god's sake, Greg-!"

"One hundred and twenty-five million dollars," House told him. "and they have to write a letter to be published by the New Jersey Medical Association apologizing for bad mouthing me to other hospitals and retracting their statements against me. After Vince takes his cut that will leave me with 87.5 million dollars. The IRS will take their cut which will leave me around forty-five million dollars."

"That's…oh my god…I'm so happy for you," Clee told him, turning so that he could kiss him; House was more than happy to oblige, slipping some tongue in for good measure.

"It wasn't so much the money that I was looking for," House murmured once their lips had parted. "I wanted the hospital board and Cuddy to know that I was worth more than they ever gave me credit for and I wanted them to be held accountable for their actions against not only me but a number of other employees over the years. Once the criminal investigation begins, I'll end up with both."

Clee's hand had undone the buttons on House's shirt and then had pulled his undershirt out of his pants. His warm hand slid underneath the undershirt and began to slowly and gently rub House's chest in circular patterns.

"Mmm," the diagnostician hummed contently, closing his eyes and focusing on Clee's touch.

"You've finally won, Greg," the surgeon told him soothingly.

"Hmm? This? This is nothing," House told him. "I won weeks ago, when I was lucky enough to meet you and have you fall in love with me."

"What's this?" Clee responded, grinning. "Is Greg House waxing romantic?"

"Only with you," House told him, appearing almost bashful. "If you tell anyone I'll deny it."

"Of course."

House kissed the top of Clee's head lovingly. These moments with the younger man meant far more to him than any amount of money ever could.


	56. Chapter 56 Part 3 Ch 22

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **7232

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Monday, July 12, 2010; 7:44 A.M.**

He was early for his appointment at the Pain Management clinic at Penn State's main medical center; that was due to the fact that it was Bonnar who had offered to drive him there and back home when his testing was over. House had no idea what all would be done to him today but it was probably a safe bet to say that he wouldn't feel up to driving himself when it was all over.

Bonnar went into the clinic with House. He reported to the reception desk where a pretty nurse in her thirties checked him in and then gave him a clipboard of forms to fill out and sign while he waited for his turn to be called. He sat down next to Bonnar who was already holding out a pen for him to take and use. There were a couple of consent forms for him to sign as well as a registration form to fill in with his name, age, address, phone number, next of kin, emergency contact, medical proxy insurance provider and similar information for the clinic's records. The rest was a two part questionnaire that served to take his medical history. He was actually impressed with how in depth the questions actually were, and how much information was gathered by it.

He was just finishing the paperwork when the receptionist-slash-nurse called his name.

"Did you want me to stick around a while longer?" Bonnar asked him, rising to her feet the same time he did.

"I think I can do this by myself," he told her, rolling his eyes. "I don't need you to hold my hand."

"I never intended on doing that," Bonnar responded sarcastically. "God only knows where those paws of yours have been or what they were doing there!" Her tone softened. "You've got my cell number. Call me when you're done and need a ride home. I only have paperwork and a couple of office appointments today so coming when you need me to shouldn't be a problem."

House nodded, looking at her with gratitude. Bonnar seemed to understand that as his way of saying thank you.

"Don't be a _total_ asshole to the people here," she told him sternly before turning to leave.

"Aww, but Mom…!" House whined in his child-like voice. She gave him the finger without looking back at him. House chuckled softly at that and followed the waiting receptionist into the lab.

**Monday, July 12, 2010; 9:33 A.M.**

Justin Clee had just been transferred from the intensive care unit to a private room on the ward and was walking the couple of steps from the wheelchair to the bed with his nurse watching him like a hawk when his unexpected visitors arrived. He'd questioned the special treatment and the nurse who had been pushing him in the wheelchair told him that Dr. House had arranged for the private room.

"He said," the nurse had told the surgeon with detachment, "that this way he could have sex with you without having to deal with a voyeuristic neighbor on the other side of the curtain."

Clee had laughed at that but the nurse hadn't found it quite so funny and was glad she was leaving as Stephania Hutton and her mother entered the room. Clee pressed the button on the control pad to elevate his head to a slightly reclined sitting position and grinned. He hadn't seen Stephania since the moment he'd passed out in the Hutton stable with the teen kneeling near him, crying. He was extremely happy to see her, especially after hearing from Hutton and others about how hard she'd taken it all.

"Stephie!—It's about time you showed your face around here," he told her with a grin. "Come here, Sweetheart."

Stephania looked tired and pale; she didn't smile like usual and seemed almost nervous to approach him. She did, however, and stood next to his bed; she appeared like she didn't know what to say or do next. Hutton stood off a bit watching her with curiosity and concern, waiting. Clee exchanged glances with her, questioning her silently. Hutton simply shrugged one shoulder almost imperceptibly and remained silent.

"May I give you a hug?" Clee asked her carefully. He realized that her discomfort around him was likely the result of the near-rape she'd been through, or perhaps the trauma of the entire event was washing over her again upon seeing him. He didn't want to do anything that would hurt her in any way.

Nodding slightly Stephania leaned toward him cautiously. Clee wrapped his arms around her and not even ten seconds later felt her body trembling, her rib cage expanding and contracting and her tears soaking through the thin cotton of his hospital gown. He held her closer, tighter and rubbed her back soothingly, ignoring the discomfort he felt in his chest.

"It's okay, Steph," he murmured soothingly, feeling himself getting choked up by the girl's venting of her pain. "It's alright, Honey. I'm okay and you're going to be okay too."

Gradually he felt Stephania's arms rise from her sides and embrace him in return.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry, Uncle Justin!"

"For what?" he asked, genuinely baffled.

"If I…hadn't been…so stupid…and gone down…there with him," she answered between sobs and hiccups, "You wouldn't…have come looking for me. You wouldn't…have been shot. It's my fault."

Clee pushed her away only far enough to grab her face gently in both hands.

"Look at me Steph," he told her, his own eyes glistening. Reluctantly she met his gaze. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen from her crying; mini droplets of tears clung to the tips of her dark eyelashes. "It was not your fault, okay? It wasn't your fault at all and I want you to stop blaming yourself _right now_. You had no way of knowing that he was the person stalking your family. He changed his appearance and you trusted him right away because you believed that if he worked for the security company then he must be safe. I shouldn't have gone down there half-cocked thinking that I could take care of the situation all by myself if I had to. It was stupid of _me_, not _you_. If anything, Steph, you saved my life. When he raised his gun again to shoot me in the head to kill me you hit him with the pitchfork then finished him off before he could finish me off."

"But—" she began to protest but he wouldn't let her go any further with it.

"No buts," Clee insisted firmly. "You're not to blame for any of it. You're my _hero_ and I'm not being a smartass when I say that. Do you hear me?"

Stephania hiccupped as she started to calm down and her sobbing began to wane. Clee smiled and then let go of her face long enough to grab a tissue from the box on the table next to his bed and dry her tears. He then handed the tissue to her.

"You can blow your own nose, thank you."

She giggled a little at that, doing as he said. He grinned back at her and then pulled her into another hug. When she gently pulled away Clee nodded to the chairs against the wall near the window overlooking the hospital grounds.

"Liv, get over here already," he told the psychiatrist with a smile. "Both of you: cop a squat and visit with me for a while. I need you to distract me."

"Why?" Stephania asked, pulling up a chair.

"Greg went in for his preliminary testing and evaluation for his pain management protocol this morning," the vascular surgeon explained as Hutton placed her chair beside her daughter's and sat down. "Based on the results from today Dr. VanLuten will draw up a complete protocol for him. It's going to be 'uncomfortable' for him, Greg said, so in other words, he expects it to be quite painful. I can't stop worrying about him."

"If he knew you were worrying about him he'd probably call you an idiot," Hutton told him, smirking. "He'll get through it okay, Justin. Think of it this way—Dr. VanLuten needs to have an idea of just how severe House's pain can get in order to know how to adequately treat it. The one to ten scale isn't good enough to give her an accurate idea."

Clee nodded, still concerned. He knew all of that already but it didn't change the fact that he hated the idea of House in pain however noble or necessary it might be. He couldn't wait until it was over and he knew that House was back at home and being taken care of. Bonnar had volunteered her time to keep on eye open should any problems arise and Hutton lived on the same acreage. He knew, intellectually, that House would be okay. He was just frustrated that he couldn't be the one supporting and caring for his partner.

**Monday, July 12, 2010; 1:51 P.M.**

Dr. VanLuten read the various results from House's tests. As she did the diagnostician sat on the opposite side of her desk, rubbing at his leg. It ached so badly that he couldn't help but grimace from time to time as his ruined muscle tissue spasmed mercilessly. During the exam and testing themselves his leg hadn't hurt all that much. There were moments of sharp pain, but otherwise it was a lot less painful than he'd expected. It wasn't until he'd been immobile for a while that the real pain had started.

The pain management specialist looked up from the reports to stare at him. Getting up from her desk she went to a locked cabinet and opened it, pulling out a small tray holding a couple of medicine vials, a couple of packaged syringes, gloves, alcohol swabs and bandages.

"What's that?" House inquired as she approached him.

"Ketorolac," she answered, setting the tray down on the desk, "and I want to give you Flexeril as well but because of the side-effects I need to know that you won't be leaving here and driving yourself home before I do. You'll also have to remain here for at least twenty minutes to make certain you don't suffer a dangerous reaction. Yes, I know you've been given both of these drugs before but it's clinic policy."

"I have someone who is going to pick me up and drive me home," House informed her. She nodded with approval.

VanLuten went to a small sink in the corner of the room and washed her hands, dried them on paper towel and then returned to the desk and donned the gloves.

"That can't be part of the protocol," House stated.

"No. As you know Ketorolac isn't safe for long term use. This is just to ease your pain for now," she assured him with a small smile. "Roll up your sleeve or take off your outer shirt, please."

House obeyed, unbuttoning his shirt and cuffs and removing the button-up and revealing the classic rock T beneath. As he did that she prepared a syringe with the Ketorolac. She disinfected a patch of skin on his left upper arm with an alcohol swab then pierced his flesh and deltoid and injected the pain killer. As expected it burned as the drug entered his muscle tissue. She then removed the needle, wiped the injection site with a cotton pad; a tiny bead of blood had formed on the surface then checked it again for further bleeding. Determining that it was fine she went on to give him the Flexeril as well. She set the tray aside, removed her gloves and dumped them into the garbage before returning to her seat.

"As I explained before," VanLuten told him, "there are two components to chronic pain syndrome that must be addressed in any management protocol; these are the psychological component and the pharmaceutical component. Your pain is real; it's not psychosomatic in any way and you've been done a disservice by those health professionals that have told you otherwise. However, there are psychological methods to help you tolerate and deal with pain better than you have been. Those accompanied by adequate pharmaceutical intervention are very effective if the protocol is strictly followed and managed. That means you have to take my direction and the direction of the other therapists and follow it faithfully if this is going to work. Are you willing to do that?"

He wasn't a fool. House had gone for so long in constant pain and knew that part of it all had been his stubbornness to allow others to help him and resistance to obey anything he hadn't told himself to do. He wanted—no, he _needed_—this to work this time.

"Yes," he told her honestly, "I am."

"Good," she told him with a nod. "I understand that you are currently in a psychiatric outpatient program so many of the skills that you need to learn will be taught to you there but we will also be covering certain psychological techniques to help you increase your tolerance for pain, recognize the various kinds of pain you're experiencing, learn how to ease anxiety and relax since anxiety only weakens your tolerance, and deal with your emotional issues that keep you from completing the grieving process for your leg. You need to come to an _emotional_ acceptance of your disability and pain. You've accepted it rationally but not emotionally and both areas need to be attended to.

"Concurrently we will be employing non-medicinal techniques that many have felt help ease the pain and increase their tolerance. You'll be seeing a physiotherapist, an occupational therapist and trying various procedures including acupuncture, acupressure, and therapeutic massage. Also I want to start you on TENS treatments. We'll see which of these are most effective for you and continue with those that are. Even if they bring only a limited amount of relief it's worth pursuing it.

"Pharmacologically I'm going to start you with trigger point injections using an anesthetic on a regular, scheduled basis. As well, I want to start you on the gabapentin, low-dose prednisone and amitriptyline right away. The prednisone should start reducing any inflammation there is immediately but the amitriptyline and gabapentin will take two to four weeks to reach full efficacy. We'll stick with the prescription ibuprofen temporarily so we can assess the effectiveness of the gabapentin and amitriptyline and find the proper dosages for you. Once that is settled I want to gradually switch you from ibuprofen to Tramadol. I will give you two doses of Toradol for the road and scripts for gabapentin, amitriptyline and more ibuprofen. We'll continue on that course for three weeks at which time I want to see you again to see where we're at with the pain control and begin the Tramadol; I'll determine then the mode of delivery but an intrathecal pump is not out of the question. However, if you have another episode of pain higher than a four on the ten scale I want you to come to the ER here and receive emergency treatment immediately. Don't wait or try to tough it out because you've experienced worse. That will be unnecessary suffering and a detriment to the protocol overall. Don't try to be macho about your pain, got it?"

"Got it," House replied with a smirk.

When he was finished with VanLuten House called Bonnar to let her know that he was ready to be picked up. She told him she'd be there in fifteen but he told her there was no rush since he had to stay a while at the clinic to make certain he had no serious side-effects or allergic reactions to the meds VanLuten had given him. He knew there wouldn't be but it appeared he had no choice but to humor them.

VanLuten's receptionist printed off a list of instructions for him and set up the appointment date with VanLuten in three weeks. She booked him into weekly physiotherapy appointments at the clinic. The receptionist had already printed out a schedule for acupuncture and massage appointment times open for booking at the clinic. She told House he could go home and decide which dates and times worked best for him and then call her to book the appointments he chose.

He was sleeping in his chair, his head bobbing every so often, when Bonnar arrived. She stood looking at him for a moment or two, an amused smirk on her face.

"They look so innocent when they're asleep, don't they?" Bonnar commented to the receptionist, who smiled and nodded in response. "Oh well, time to wake up Sleepy."

Bonnar put a hand on House's left knee and shook it, ready to back away should he be the type to flail or kick when awakened or startled. Gary always tried to swat her away when she tried to wake him up and when he was asleep he had no idea how hard he was swinging.

House's response was verbal. "Get lost," he grumbled sleepily.

"Okay, but then you'll have to walk home," Bonnar told him pleasantly. House opened his eyes one at a time, glaring at her. She had to fight hard to keep from laughing at the disgruntled look on his face.

"That's blackmail," he told her before allowing a smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. "I like it." House sat up straight, stretched his upper body, yawned a couple of times, and found his cane before rising slowly to his feet, putting most of his weight on his left foot before gingerly trying out the right to see how much pain it would cause and whether or not it would be able to bear it's normal share of the weight. The pain was about a two, thanks to the Toradol and Flexeril.

"Ready to go?" the OB/GYN asked him.

"Yeah," House told her with a nod, "but we have to stop at a CVS or Walgreen's to fill my prescription before we leave the city." They walked side by side for the exit, Bonnar sticking close enough to steady him should House become dizzy or his leg give out. It had started to rain while they were in there and was coming down as a steady shower.

"Do you want to stop and see Justin before we head for the acreage? You can get your prescription filled in Pharmacy while you visit?"

"Sounds good," House agreed. Bonnar had parked in the loading zone so he wouldn't have to walk any great distance with his leg. She stood at House's door as he climbed inside, trying not to look like she was there to help him up into the SUV if her needed it, even though they both knew she was. Once House was in she shut the door and then climbed into the driver's seat and out of the rain.

As she drove they both were quiet, listening to the classic rock station House had found on her satellite radio. He wasn't as interested in the music as he was watching Bonnar, assessing her condition with analytical eyes. He'd noticed the other day that she had been looking more fatigued than usual, her gait faltered more frequently as spasticity affected the proper functioning of her legs and that she had been losing weight. She had been carrying a slight excess of weight; a great deal of that had been lost since the BBQ. She also winced occasionally from pain in various parts of her body. Finally, today he'd noticed that she was breathing more shallowly and fairly rapidly almost as if she was panting for breath. In other words, Bonnar's MS, which had been dormant, was flaring again.

What caught House's attention the most was her apparent difficulty breathing. It could mean that her _medulla oblongata_, the part of her brain responsible for respiration, was being damaged by her MS, an indication of rapid progression. Respiratory complications usually occurred later in the progression of the disease and was always terminal. His understanding was that the OB/GYN hadn't had the disease all that long, but if she had a form that was particularly aggressive she could be approaching her endgame nonetheless. This kind of news would only bring more grief and stress for everyone, but Hutton in particular. She and Bonnar were best friends and nearly inseparable, similar to how he and Wilson were in the early years of their friendship pre-infarction, before things became increasingly complicated by co-dependency.

"You want to tell me why you're staring at me like I'm a CT film or lab print-out," Bonnar asked him suddenly, interrupting his train of thought. She looked sideways at him with an arched eyebrow.

"Do you really want to know?" he responded, sounding grim and looking at her.

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't."

He nodded. He didn't know her well, but what he did know about her served only to confirm that statement.

"Your MS is flaring. You're losing weight because you're having difficulty swallowing and you're leery about aspiration pneumonia. Your gait is becoming affected and you've been depressed, perhaps as a symptom or due to the fact that you know that your disease is progressing rapidly. Finally, you're having difficulty breathing, a sign of advanced damage to your brain stem."

Bonnar stared straight out the windshield and was quiet a moment before smiling ruefully and saying, "Yeah, but at least I can see today!" She was not quite successful at hiding her pain and fear behind the sarcasm. "I have a particularly aggressive form of the disease. I thought I was being given a reprieve with the long remission I'd experienced lately but so such luck. Two days ago my legs just gave out on me during a vaginal birth. One of my fellows had to finish for me. I've been forgetting things-important things."

"Like how to drive?" House quipped, attempting levity. He fell flat but Bonnar gave him an amused smirk anyway.

"Yeah," she told him. "See that red light? I can't remember whether I'm supposed to stop or hit the gas." Even as she was speaking she was braking.

House snorted.

"Anyway," Bonnar said with a sigh, staring at the traffic light hanging over the intersection, "I've decided it's time to take an indefinite leave of absence. I can't do my job anymore—not the way I want to do it. Gary and I have been saving like misers for years and have a nice nest-egg built up. We'll be fine for money—at least I won't have that worry hanging over my head, too."

House nodded. At times like these he wished he knew what to say or do to encourage her, although he argued with himself that encouraging her would only be denying the fact that MS was progressive and terminal, that she was going to die. Offering false hope to people wasn't House's way, never had been and never would be no matter how much therapy he took.

"Who's you're immunologist?"

"Dr. Layton," she responded. The light turned green and she lightly pressed the gas pedal. "Have you met him yet? Short guy, completely bald, kinda chubby?"

"No."

"Yeah, well the man is about as humorless as an enema but he's one of the top five in his field in the United States," Bonnar informed him. "Still, there's only so much medical science can do for me. It's really only a matter of time—less time than I had hoped."

"How long does he give you?" House asked, raising an eyebrow.

Shrugging, Bonnar shoulder checked as she changed lanes and then sighed. "Guestimating with this disease, as you know, is difficult. I could go into another remission or alternately it could rampage through me like a wildfire. He figures that should this flare-up not stop and continue to progress as rapidly as it is now, I've got six months—eight if I take it extra easy on myself.

"Gary wants to retire early, sell the house and his rig and buy one of those giant motorhomes with the pull outs—you know, one of those gargantuan houses on wheels?—and tour the country, go see our kids and their families for a while and just live until I die. This is hitting him hard but he's not the type to show it until it reveals itself as an ulcer or heart attack; I refuse to allow him to steal my thunder and die before me. If buying a motorhome helps him deal with it, I'm all for it—but I'd just as soon stay home and spend what time I have left with my friends. My sons are younger and healthier and are not wanting for money. They can just as easily come to me as I can to them, I'll have my garden to putter in until I can't and then I can sit in it in my wheelchair and watch the birds, smell the roses—literally. That and I can be here with Liv."

House nodded. "Does she know yet?"

"Not yet," Bonnar admitted, shrugging. "She's been so busy with work and Steph that we haven't talked much since the BBQ. But the real reason is that I'm a coward. I'm afraid of how she'll take it. She's got so much to deal with now as it is that I don't want to add to her burden."

"And telling her will make it even more real for you," House added knowingly, surprised at his own emotional insight.

"That, too," she admitted. "The only three I've talked to about this are Gary, Xander and now you. Until I do get the courage to talk to her about it, I'd appreciate it if you kept this on the down low."

"Such juicy gossip and I have to keep my mouth shut?" House mock-protested. "What's in it for me?"

Chuckling softly the OB/GYN simply shook her head at him earning another smirk from the diagnostician.

House delivered his prescriptions to the hospital pharmacy before making his way to Clee's room. The vascular surgeon was reading a medical journal when House arrived though his eyes looked heavy as if he were about to fall asleep. He didn't notice right away that he was being watched from the doorway.

"Why don't you just give up the fight and go to sleep?" House told him, attracting Clee's attention. The younger man smiled at seeing him. House approached the bed. Without a word Clee made room for him on the small surface and House removed his Nikes before climbing on next to him. Clee set the journal aside and planted a rather randy kiss on House, who responded in kind.

"Damn, Justin," House said when their lips parted, "keep that up and I'm gonna jump your bones here and now!"

Smiling mischievously Clee kissed him again, more passionately than before. When he pulled out of the kiss House pouted, frowning and his bottom lip sticking out. Clee chuckled at that, tracing one of the older man's eyebrows with his finger tips before finishing the gesture by caressing down his jaw line with the back of his fingers.

"I miss you," Clee murmured with a crooked smile and hungry eyes.

House feigned innocence. "I'm here to see you every day."

"No, no, no, no! I mean, I _miss_ you, Greg."

House knew exactly what he'd meant and answered in kind, "I really _miss_ you, too."

Clee turned to face House, who carefully did the same thing so as not to jar his leg. The Toradol was working well but he didn't want to push his luck. The surgeon's hand came to rest on House's whiskered cheek. House pressed his face against the touch and then turned his face to kiss the palm of Clee's hand.

"I love you so much," Clee told him softly. "I want so badly to be with you in every way again. I want to remind you just how much you mean to me. I hate being in here, unable to be there for you when you need support, like when you had to face the hospital lawyers and Cuddy or like today, when you had to go through all of that testing and poking and prodding. I feel like I'm letting you down and I hate that."

"You're not," House told him. "You're here because you almost died. I…thought that I was going to lose you. I was out of my mind with worry…I want you with me but I don't blame you for not being able to be there right now. Justin…just knowing that you love me is all the support I need. You _have_ been with me. I…I love you." He leaned toward Justin and tenderly covered his face with tender, loving kisses. He never would have made it through the loss of Wilson, the new life he was establishing for himself, the lawsuit and now the battle with his long time nemesis, that is, the pain that had been his constant and unwanted companion for what seemed like a lifetime now, without this brilliant, loving, caring, funny, exciting, sexy man in his arms.

Clee captured House's mouth and they kissed until they had to part for breath.

"You haven't asked me about what Dr. VanLuten has decided," House murmured. "Starting tomorrow I begin the protocol: Prednisone, amitriptyline and gabapentin with the ibuprofen to determine the efficacy of that cocktail before Tramadol is exchanged for the Ibuprofen intrathecally."

"A pump?" Clee asked, receiving a nod in response.

"Why the frown?" House asked him, taken aback. "This is a good thing."

Clee nodded, appearing distracted. "Yes, of course. I was just thinking about the risks that go along with an intrathecal pump. There are a number of surgical complications that exist, Greg. You could bleed into the intrathecal space which could cause paralysis and you would be more prone to such bleeding because of the Coumadin you take to prevent potential clotting in your leg. If you stop taking blood thinners you could end up with post-throbectomic clotting complications, possibly another infarction, or a pulmonary embolism, heart attack, stroke…"

House allowed Clee to vent his concerns with more patience than he would have had for anyone else; he was presenting valid points for consideration that would naturally be of concern to a vascular surgeon.

"…and a number of neurologic complications," the surgeon went on. "Also, the risk of infection is another concern that has to be addressed."

"I have no MRSA history," House told him calmly but his words seemed to sail past his partner without being heard.

"There are also catheter complications, Greg. If the catheter is inserted incorrectly there could be damage done to the nerve roots or even the spinal cord itself. That would involve pain, weakness—hell, you could suffer sensory loss!"

"I'm used to pain and weakness," House responded again, lifting his hand to comb his fingers through Clee's hair soothingly.

"Yes, but you don't need more from a procedure which is supposed to alleviate what you already have." Clee frowned from anger now instead of worry. "What the hell are you grinning about? I'm trying to be serious here."

"You're worried about me," House replied, looking like the Cheshire cat.

"Of course I'm worried about you!"

"You love me and you don't want to lose me like you lost Charlie," House pointed out, his smile softening to something somewhat less obnoxious. "The complications you've been citing are possible of occurring but extremely unlikely. You know that as well as I do. You're scared and blowing things out of proportion. This is an illustration of why doctors should never treat friends and loved ones."

"Is it so wrong for me to want to keep you safe?" Clee asked him, his anger dissipating. "You've already been through hell and back because of your leg; I don't want you to experience any more unnecessary suffering."

"I know," the diagnostician whispered, staring into scared, smoky green-blue eyes. "I'll talk further with Dr. VanLuten about it and ask if I can take the Tramadol by injection or orally instead if that will make you feel better about it."

"I don't want you to feel resentful—"

"I don't," House told him, pressing a kiss to Clee's forehead. "How can I resent you for loving me?"

**Tuesday, July 12, 2010; 7:28 P.M.**

Still laughing from the joke that Gary had just told them, Hutton and Bonnar started carrying plates into the psychiatrist's kitchen. Stephania offered to help wash or dry them but Anderson arrived to tell the three women that he and Gary would be doing the dishes.

"Does Gary know you're volunteering him?" Bonnar asked the pediatrician with a smile.

"It was my idea," Gary answered from immediately behind her. He gently turned Bonnar around and kissed her tenderly, earning surprised looks from the others in the room. Gary wasn't a demonstrative person by any means so this action on his part was unexpected. Amused smiles broke out on Hutton's and Anderson's faces.

When Gary pulled out of the kiss he said, "Why don't you and Liv sit down and visit while we men and the kids clean up?"

"Great," Stephania muttered glumly, starting the water into the sink. David came into the kitchen in search of a wash cloth to wipe the table without having to be asked.

Hutton pinched herself. "No, I'm awake. Linda let's leave before they change their minds!"

Bonnar nodded, smiling but there was something about the smile that disturbed Hutton. Gone was the genuine amusement it had held just seconds before and in its place there came a tension in the muscles of the OB/GYN forehead, eyes and jaw, as if she was dreading something. Unsettled by it Hutton had the distinct feeling that this was all planned and that there was something she didn't know about that she was soon to find out.

"Liv, let's go sit in your study," Bonnar said simply.

"Okay," Hutton asked, her brow creasing, following her friend to said room where Hutton shut the door behind them. Bonnar went to sit on the sofa and then patted the spot next to her. Anxiety was triggered in the younger woman. Something was wrong, she sensed; something very wrong. She sat down.

"What's going on?" Hutton demanded, leveling a sober look on the other woman.

Sighing heavily, Bonnar looked her square in the eye and told her, "Liv, my MS is flaring again and…and my doctor told me that it's progressing aggressively."

"When did this start?" Hutton asked her, eyes widening in shock. She couldn't believe she was being told this. Bonnar had been doing so well for so long and she hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary—but then again, she'd been so absorbed with Stephania's recovery and her own issues that she hadn't been paying as much attention to her best friend as she would have liked to have been lately. Regardless, she couldn't believe that she'd missed seeing something as big as this.

"Shortly before the barbecue," was the answer. "It has reached my respiratory centers, as well as cognitive functions like memory, my ability to think in logical sequences, moments of confusion; likewise I'm having difficulty swallowing and my motor skills are getting worse…I talked to Xander today. I'm taking an indefinite leave of absence. My last day at St. Luke's is Friday."

Hutton sat back in her seat, allowing the overstuffed upholstery to suck her in, envelop her like a hug. "How aggressive is aggressive?" she asked in a small voice. She felt lost.

"Six to eight months," Bonnar answered, nearly whispering.

Tears pricked at the psychiatrist's eyes and she reacted with a sudden intake of breath. "Have you gotten a second opinion?"

"That was the second opinion. It didn't differ from the first." Seeing a tear course down Hutton's cheek Bonnar grabbed her hands tightly. "Also, House called me on it yesterday. He'd noticed the changes in my health and had correctly come to the conclusion that the MS was active again."

"There has to be something that we can do?" Hutton insisted, finding it too difficult to wrap her mind around the fact that her friend was dying. Of course, she technically had been for a long time already, but the remission had given Hutton a false sense of security, that the MS was there but wouldn't progress any further. Even psychiatrists clung on to denial as a defense mechanism.

"Well, unless we can discover an answer for a disease that has resisted the finding of a cure for decades in the next six months, the only thing we can do is enjoy every moment we have left. That's what I intend on doing." Bonnar was putting on an admirably brave act but Hutton could see through the façade that was meant to comfort and reassure her.

"Linda…no, no this is just a blip on the radar and it'll disappear again and you'll be fine. You'll be fine…" but even as Hutton said it she knew that it was a lie. Her best friend's eyes were running with tears now. Reaching out to Hutton, Bonnar pulled her into a hug and Hutton hugged back tightly, burying her face in Bonnar's shoulder. She knew that she should be stronger; a support for her friend and not a burden but Hutton couldn't help it. The dam burst and she began to sob.

"I'm sorry," Hutton hiccupped, "I should be the one comforting you, not the other way around!"

"Would you just shut up and allow yourself to be human without feeling guilty about it?" Bonnar replied, also sobbing. "You deserve to be comforted once in a while, too, you know."

"Linda, this can't be happening! What am I going to do without my partner in crime?"

"You'll be okay, love. You will. You have so many people who love you, Liv. Take your own advice and let them love on you like you've loved on them when they've needed it. You're strong, girl! You've survived so much—you'll get through this too."

"It's not fair, Linda. You don't deserve this. You deserve to grow old with that hunk of man-flesh of yours who loves you so much and needs you. We all need you. I love you, sweetie!"

Bonnar gently pushed Hutton away and looked her in the eyes. "I love you too, _chica_. It's going to be okay. I'm not dead yet and I don't want to spend what time I still have left being sad and bitter. From the day we're born we all have an expiry date; mine just happens to be sooner rather than later but I'm okay with that because I've lived a wonderful life! I wouldn't trade a single moment of it for anything. I'm leaving on a high note as far as I'm concerned and what better way to make exit than that?"

"How can you be so calm and blasé about this?" Hutton demanded feeling irrationally irritated with her.

"I'm _not_," Bonnar insisted. "When I first noticed the symptoms returning I was angry and sad and hysterical one minute, depressed and sullen the next. I cried so much I didn't think I would be able to produce tears again but obviously I was wrong. I won't let this keep me from wringing every drop of life out of the time I have left that I can. So cry as much as you need to now but after today, I don't want you to cry about me anymore. Help me enjoy myself instead…and I can't do that if I know you're despairing. I'm facing some very nasty stuff ahead of me as my body breaks down but in the meantime I don't want to waste time with mourning. Okay, love? If you want to do something to help me, this is what you can do. Then, once I'm gone, you can be there for Gary. He's going to need your help planning one hell of a party celebrating my life, not mourning my death!"

Hutton couldn't help but laugh at that in spite of her tears. She began to wipe them away with her hands, smearing her make-up but she didn't care. Bonnar was right…why waste time mourning her death when she wasn't dead yet. There would be time for mourning later.

"How _is_ Gary taking this?" Hutton asked, sniffling. She got up and went to the desk where she had a box of tissues and brought it back to the sofa for the two of them.

Bonnar shrugged and smiled ruefully, grabbing a tissue and wiping her eyes. "Oh, you know Gary—tough, stolid trucker on the outside, soft blubbering teddy bear on the inside. I think he's okay, dealing with the issue the only way he knows how—by being reasonable and thoughtful about it but I suspect that once I'm gone he'll finally breakdown and I'm asking you and Gage to be there for him when he does. We've been married for thirty years…I don't think he'll know what to do with himself when he doesn't have me ordering him around and telling him what his opinion is." She smirked at that but the sadness was there, causing her lips to quiver. "Is it selfish of me to be glad that I'm dying before he is? Because if it were the other way around I don't think I could survive his dying without going bat-shit crazy!"

"Yes," Hutton told her gently. "And that's okay. For the next eight months, _everyday_ is your birthday and you are queen of the world!"


	57. Chapter 57 Part 3 Ch 23

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **~8700

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Friday, July 15, 2010; 9:08 P.M.**

House parked his bike in Hutton's driveway instead of heading directly to his place after returning from outpatient group that evening. He had been looking forward to the weekend but an emergent patient had appeared and was bumped up the list to his immediate care. Chase had already taken on another case with his team the day before so there had been no way House could have shifted his case onto the younger doctor and his team. Fortunately House's team was a little more competent than he'd had the unfortunate luck of having in the past. After a couple of years under House's tutelage (whip) he had even the weakest of fellows to the point where he could trust them to make some decisions on their own. Fortunately he and Chase had selected well from the candidates and they both had fairly competent teams; however, even these teams couldn't be left to their own devices alone. That's why he'd come home rather than remain at St. Luke's following outpatient group—to shower, change, eat something and then head back to the hospital to work on his newest puzzle with his team.

He had something else he wanted to take care of as well.

Ringing the doorbell, House waited only a few seconds before the inner door opened. Hutton was the one who had answered. She looked tired and drawn in spite of the forced smile she gave him. She opened the screen door for him.

"Good evening, House," she said pleasantly. "Come in."

Accepting her welcome he limped past her into the foyer, waiting for her to shut the doors again before talking.

"So, how are you doing?" the psychiatrist asked him, her eyes subtly scanning him for non-verbal clues. "Just getting back from group?"

"Fine," House answered succinctly, "and yes. You, on the other hand, look like shit."

Hutton smirked and shook her head. "Always full of compliments, aren't you House?"

"You want me to lie to you?" he asked her, raising an eyebrow.

"No," Hutton assured him, "but have you ever heard of euphemism?"

"Waste of time," he told her with a quick shake of his head. This was an old discussion between them. It had become somewhat of a game. "Bonnar told you."

Nodding, Hutton subconsciously hugged herself. "Yes, she did a few nights ago. And I guess I'm still reeling from the news. It'll take me time, but I'll be okay. How's your leg? Notice anything new with the meds?"

"Not yet," he told her with a nearly imperceptible shrug. "It will take a while for full efficacy to be reached. The pain is no worse."

"Good," she acknowledged.

"Is Stephania around?" he asked, his eyes scanning the environs quickly. There was no one else visible on the main floor.

"She's upstairs," Hutton told him. "I'll go get her. Go have a seat in the living room."

He gladly did as suggested, happy to get off his feet. He sat in an armchair and put his bad leg up on the matching ottoman. The pain was around a four, which was typical lately at the end of an average day. Still, he rubbed his leg lightly over the scar. Hutton climbed the stairs to the second floor and was gone a couple of minutes before coming back down alone.

"She just got out of the shower," Hutton told him. "She'll be down in a few minutes. Would you like coffee or tea?"

"Tea would be good," he told her with a nod. She smiled again and headed for the kitchen. He took the time alone to close his eyes and try to force the headache he had away. He opened his eyes again when he heard someone coming down the stairs and head in his direction. Stephania approached wearing a light pink dressing robe over a matching set of pajamas. Her hair was up in a towel twisted around like a turban. She took a seat on the sofa.

"Hi, Dr. House," she said quietly, biting on her lip nervously.

"You're not ready," he observed with a slight frown. She looked at him quizzically.

"I'm sorry?"

"Your science camp presentation is in two weeks and you're not ready for it yet," House told her. "We have more work to do."

Stephania sighed. "I'm not going to make a presentation. I just don't feel like it anymore."

"So what, you're just quitting?" House asked. "Giving up?"

She looked at him with puppy dog eyes. "I'm tired, Dr. House. I just want to spend the rest of my summer relaxing. I've been through a lot—"

"And you've come through it," House told her without sympathy. "And you'll continue to get through it. I didn't waste all those hours on you because I thought you were a quitter. Why the hell would I? You either say 'I give up, the assholes win' or you say 'fuck the world they won't keep me from doing what I want'. I've gone down the surrender route and it ended up with me giving myself these." He exposed his arms to show her the bright red scars which were the result of the suicide attempt that had started this phase of his life. He lucked out, pure and simple but not everybody came back from where he had and it hadn't been easy.

He didn't want her to give up on herself or fall into and wallow around in a pit of depression and despair; not that he would ever tell her that.

Stephania's eyes had widened at the sight of the scars. He'd never allowed her to sit and look at them before and generally kept them hidden if he could. She reached out a tentative hand as if she was about to touch them and then stopped herself. House grabbed her hand and brought it down onto his arm. She looked at him for permission and he gave her a nod. Her touch was feather soft as she traced the lines that were almost completely healed. It was still sensitive to the touch but she was barely making contact with him.

"Did it hurt much?" she asked, hushed.

"I was too preoccupied with what was going on in my head to pay attention at the time. Later, yes. Not one of my best moments."

"I guess," she agreed softly as she withdrew her hand. "But I don't know if I can remember anything from before."

"You didn't suffer brain injury, did you?" House asked.

"No," Stephania answered, shaking her head and looking at him quizzically.

"Then it's still there," House told her. "Next week you're going in to the hospital with me. You're about to become an unofficial member of my team and if you're lucky the next patient in line won't die before then; it promises to be one doozy of a case. You can't treat my patient but you can observe my lackeys doing so and make them look like idiots when you diagnose the patient before they do."

She sighed, tongue-tied, and nodded. House flashed a small, seldomly offered smile before it disappeared again. He turned and limp-marched out of the house without another word. He considered himself fortunate that she couldn't see the smile that returned to his face after he'd left.

**Monday, July 18, 2010; 7:37 P.M.**

It was during process group that Daphne, one of the psychiatric nurse-therapists in the St. Luke's Psychiatric Outpatient Program (P.O.P), knocked on the door and poked her head into the room where House and fifteen other men and women sat around a circle and inanely discussed what they had been learning and experiencing in therapy and their lives in general. The psychiatrist leading the group looked up at Daphne when she appeared.

"Dr. Sawyer?"

Nelson Sawyer nodded slowly. "Yes, Daphne? Something you needed?" House thought that the forty-something shrink with mousy brown hair and middle-aged spread sounded like what he imagined a tortoise would if one could talk.

"There's an urgent call for Greg," she answered, her pale eyes shifting to look in House's direction.

House perked up; anything that managed to get him out of process group, even for a few minutes, had to be important otherwise Daphne would have waited until the end of group to relay a message to him. He looked to Sawyer for a reaction. The psychiatrist frowned a little at the idea of allowing his most uncooperative patient to leave early but then looked to House and nodded toward the door as a signal of permission. House didn't waste any time leaving. He followed Daphne to her office where she waved to her phone.

"Extension number 844," she told him mildly before grabbing the empty coffee mug on her desk and leaving the room. An urgent intrahospital call? The extension wasn't Chase's, Anderson's or Hutton's. Nor was it from the ER, ICU, or nursing desk of the unit Clee was currently recuperating in.

House picked up the receiver and quickly punched in the number, curious to know whose it was.

"Dr. Xander Roth," the familiar voice answered at the other end of the line. House's eyebrows flew up in surprise. What was the boss man still doing at the hospital at this hour and why did he call _him?_ Surely he hadn't heard about the _über_-expensive test House had ordered for his most recent patient yet, had he?

"This is House. You called?"

"House, I need you to come to my office as soon as possible," Roth told him efficiently. By the tenor of the administrator's voice House could tell that something was wrong.

"What is it?" House demanded, frowning.

"I'd rather not discuss it over the phone," Roth told him.

"Am I in shit for something I did or said?" House asked, feeling anxiety creep up on him.

"What? Oh, no. It's nothing like that," Roth told him. "I'll explain when you get here. Come right away."

"Right," House acknowledged and then hung up a half second after Roth did. With his mind full of questions and possible answers to those questions he made to leave the office when Daphne returned with a fresh cup of java.

Seeing the look on his face she asked him, "Is there something wrong, Greg?"

He looked at her distractedly. "That was Roth. He wants me to report to his office a.s.a.p. I have to go."

Daphne looked skeptical. "I'll see what Dr. Sawyer thinks—"

"No time," House told her, shaking his head and marching out of her office and toward the unit exit, "I'm going."

Daphne must have figured that trying to stop him was more trouble than it was worth because she didn't even try. He grabbed his jacket, backpack, and helmet from his locker then hurried down to Xander Roth's office. When he got there he noticed that there were two Philadelphia police officers standing outside the office as if guarding it. They stopped House from getting any closer and demanded to know who he was and to see ID.

"Dr. Gregory House," he told them as he pulled out his wallet and showed them his driver's license as well as his hospital ID. "What the hell is going on?"

"There's been a security breach, Dr. House," one cop told him, offering no further information. "You can go ahead."

House eyed them suspiciously before approaching Roth's office door and knocking on it. Roth called from with for him to come in. He opened the door and stepped inside to see not only Roth but also Hutton and Chase. The psychiatrist was seated on a sofa next to the intensivist; Chase's face was swollen from bruises and his lip had been split. His left arm had been wrapped and hung suspended from a sling tied around his neck. His right hand was swollen and both were cut up and his left had been cut badly enough to require stitches to close the wound.

"What happened?" House demanded, shutting the door closed behind him. He hadn't heard a code announced over the P.A. system, although it was possible the people in psychiatry had turned the P.A. system off for some reason.

"Have a seat," Roth told him somberly. House frowned. This didn't look good.

"I'd rather stand," House answered, unable to look away from Chase, who sat looking glum and keeping his mouth shut. "Did the wombat hit on the wrong nurse? Or did Thirteen do that to you?"

Chase glared at him but didn't answer.

"House," Hutton said quietly, giving him the look that said 'shut up and listen'.

House sighed silently, limped over to a chair and lowered himself into it.

"Dr. Chase was attacked earlier," Roth told the diagnostician as he sat down on the edge of his desk. He was dressed casually in a polo shirt and a pair of twills. He obviously had been called at home and had come back to St. Luke's after being notified about the assault in his hospital. "He's suffering from a hairline fracture of the right side jaw just below the coronoid process, severe contusions to the face and body, and several deep lacerations. He and Dr. Hadley were going to visit Justin before leaving for the day. When they arrived at the unit the nursing desk was vacant and there was shouting coming from Justin's room."

House's eyes widened and panic began to creep up into House's chest the moment Justin Clee's name had been mentioned. "Is Justin alright?" he demanded, barely able to find his voice.

"He will be," Hutton said soothingly but she was cut off by a frightened House.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"House, please allow me to finish," Roth said firmly but not without empathy. "If Justin was in imminent danger we would tell you that first thing. Drs. Chase and Hadley discovered an armed stranger in Justin's room with a gun pointed at him."

"It was Lucas, House," Chase slurred with his damaged jaw paining him for doing so. "He was ranting about you killing his fiancée so now he was going to kill Justin to even things out with you. He was insane. I talked to Foreman earlier, just an hour before the attack, and he was talking about Cuddy like she was still alive. Thirteen entered the room first. Hearing her run at him Lucas turned around and shot her. That's when I was able to knock the gun from his hand and we proceeded to battle it out. Justin called for security. Before they could arrive Lucas picked up the gun and turned to shoot Justin but the gun jammed. He ran off and managed to get past security and out of the hospital."

"The hospital is under security alert," Roth continued when Chase stopped with a groan of pain and leaned his head back against the sofa. "One level below lockdown because we can confirm he is no longer in the hospital but there are police stationed outside of Justin's room, my office, the OR and every exit. A full investigation is underway to determine how this Lucas character managed to get past the metal detectors at the doors and into Justin's room unimpeded. When I find out heads are gonna roll. There's an APB out for Lucas's immediate arrest. You'll been assigned a police escort until he is."

House turned to look at Chase again. "What about Thirteen?"

"She's still in surgery. Bullet hit her ascending Aorta. It's not good at all. She might not make it." House saw tears glazing the Australian's eyes but nothing managed to escape and he couldn't be certain whether they were there due to emotional pain or the physical kind; perhaps it was both.

"And Justin?" House demanded, unable to sit still any longer. He rose back to his feet.

"He's shaken up," Roth told him, "but otherwise he didn't suffer any injuries."

"And _you're_ here to make certain that I don't go bat-shit crazy and go out searching for Lucas myself," House stated as he looked toward Hutton. It wasn't a question.

Hutton sighed. "Something like that. I also spent some time with Justin debriefing him before the police did. I think he could really use seeing you right now."

"It's because of me that he was nearly killed tonight!" House responded bitterly, his anger rising exponentially. "And the jury is still out on Thirteen."

"It was Lucas's fault, House," Chase spoke up, mildly surprising House, "not yours."

House was steaming, knowing in his head that Chase was right but not in his heart. "When I get my hands on that motherfucker I'll kill him," House muttered venomously, his one fist clenching and the other white-knuckling his cane.

"You and me both," Chase said in agreement.

"_Nobody_ here will stoop to his level and kill anybody," Hutton reminded them in an attempt to keep both House and Chase grounded. "The police will take care of Mr. Douglas. Now you," she said, pointing at House, "will forget about the rest of Outpatient tonight and go see your boyfriend; and you," she switched her pointing finger to Chase, "are going to take your pain meds and go lie down on the sofa in my office until Dr. Hadley is done in surgery. Then I'm driving you home and you're going to stay there and get the rest you need."

"And me?" Roth asked with a smirk. Hutton smiled.

"You can do whatever you want because you're the boss," she replied sweetly and winked. "Come on, House, Chase. I'll walk you both to your assigned destinations to make sure you get there. Good night, Xander."

"Good night."

Hutton and House escorted Chase to her office, being shadowed by two Philadelphia police. Once there Hutton found a blanket and pillow for the intensivist and made up her overstuffed sofa for him.

"I'm not all that tired," Chase told her, appearing anxious. "I don't think I'll be able to sleep until I know that Remy is in recovery."

Hutton smiled softly, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Xander notified the OR that should there be any change in her status you are to be paged immediately. You won't do her any good if you're too exhausted and weak to sit up, much less stand up. Lie down and rest, even if you can't sleep. Okay?"

"Consider it a job requirement, Wombat," House spoke up. He sounded annoyed but that was just to cover his concern. He couldn't let Chase know that he cared or his reputation—and intimidation effectiveness—would be shot.

Chase glared at House before looking back at Hutton and nodding in surrender. "Okay, I'll rest—but just for a few minutes." He sat down and exhaled through his teeth from the pain of moving.

House sat next to him on the sofa. He pulled a penlight out of his pocket and flashed them in Chase's eyes. The younger man reacted by quickly shutting his eyes and wincing.

"Stop that!"

"Shut up and open your eyes," House demanded, frowning impatiently. "I have to check the reactivity of your pupils."

"The ER doctor already did that. I have a possible mild concussion," Chase informed him, squinting.

"A 'possible' mild concussion?" House echoed in disdain. "What, couldn't he be certain?"

Chase sighed and then opened his eyes and gritted his teeth against the stabbing pain he felt when House waved the light in front of them again.

"Well?"

"Slowed reactivity, but even," House answered, putting the pen away. "Was your head X-rayed? Did he at least give you a neuro exam?"

"No X-ray but she did give me a cursory exam," Chase told him, "and I passed."

"Were you stunned at any point during the incident?" House asked again. He was concerned; he hadn't spent all these years training the kid just to have him fall into a coma or die.

"A little," was the admission. "I was a little confused for a while and I feel slightly nauseous."

"You have a second grade concussion," House diagnosed. "I'm going to contact Radiology and have an X-ray taken to be certain there's no bleeding."

"Perfect," Hutton agreed amiably. "He can rest here and someone can come for him to take him to Radiology when it's time."

Groaning a little from discomfort Chase laid himself down onto the sofa, laying his head back against the pillow. Hutton grabbed the blanket and proceeded to cover Chase with it. House rolled his eyes at her maternal behavior. _Women_, House thought in exasperation. While she fussed over him House called radiology from her phone and growled at the receptionist on the other end of the line when she told him that it would be at least an hour before they could fit Chase in.

"In an hour he could be dead from an intracranial hemorrhage!" House snapped.

"I'm sorry, Dr. House," the receptionist replied politely but her voice was strained. "If you need an X-ray immediately I would suggest he be sent to the ER and they can order a portable unit to be brought down stat. Otherwise my hands are tied."

"Whatever," House grumbled. "Just get down to Dr. Hutton's office where he's resting and take him in as quickly as possible." He hung up loudly, frustrated. He took a deep breath and returned his attention to Chase and Hutton.

"Now that you're all tucked in, Mommy and Daddy are going to leave," House told Chase, mockingly sweet. "Do you need a night light to keep the monsters in the closet from coming out?"

"Shut up, House," Chase grumbled, giving him a dirty look and then closing his eyes and sighing.

Hutton gave House a look of disdain laced with amusement and pointed for the door. House led the way out of the room where he and Hutton were followed by the police again. They headed for Clee's room; House was anxious to see his partner to ascertain Clee's well-being himself.

"I love your bedside manner," Hutton told him sarcastically, teasing.

"It's unique," House agreed with a smug nod, but his heart just wasn't into any kind of banter. He wanted to move on, but ghosts from Princeton kept haunting him and the people associated with him. Would he ever be able to exorcize them all?

"When we get to Justin's room you're going to see a very nervous, tense man," Hutton warned him as they walked. "Seeing a gun pointed at him again brought back the raw edge of the trauma of being shot at the BBQ. Don't take it personally if he isn't in the mood to talk. He assured me that he in no way blames you for this and that he's afraid you'll blame and take it out on yourself. He's also worried about your safety. What he needs most right now is to know that you are okay and to have you near. Okay?"

House nodded and sighed silently. "He's going to need help dealing with this. I don't know how—"

"Of course you don't," the psychiatrist told him understandingly. "You're family. Your job is to love him and be there for him. Leave the therapy to those of us who are trained to offer it. I won't be his therapist but another attending in the psych department here will be by to talk with him likely tomorrow morning. I can vouch for my colleagues here, House."

They arrived at Justin's door. There was another police officer standing guard outside Justin's door and nodded at them when they showed him their IDs.

"Go in there and hold him," she ordered gently, giving House's upper arm a quick, encouraging squeeze before leaving.

For a moment House considered walking away instead of entering the room. He didn't know what to say, what to do to make things better. No matter what others believed House knew that Lucas's attack _was_ his fault. He was the one who found and hired the PI to follow Wilson after Amber's death. If he hadn't done that, if he hadn't made it possible for Lucas and Cuddy to meet, then none of this would have happened. His lawsuit against the hospital had pushed Lucas too far and the lunatic had lashed out at the person House loved more than anyone else.

_Justin should hate me_, House figured. But House knew that Clee didn't, wouldn't, and _couldn't_ hate him. He didn't deserve someone as good as him.

_You can't keep running away_, a small voice in House's head—his voice—told him. It was right. Taking a deep breath, House summoned his courage and entered the room.

Clee sat up in bed with the top elevated to allow him to sit reclined. He stared out the window pensively, his thoughts a million miles away from there. A slight frown furrowed Justin's forehead and he hugged his knees tightly. As soon as the door opened his head turned quickly—too quickly—to see who it was and there was a look of panic in his smoky blue eyes. It pained House to see it. As soon as Clee saw that it was him he visibly relaxed but that did little to make the diagnostician feel better.

"Hey," House greeted quietly, hesitating just inside the door.

"Hey," Clee returned just as quietly. There stared at each other for a moment in silence.

Before he fully realized what he was doing House closed the distance between them, sat on the edge of Justin's bed and pulled him into a tight embrace.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into Clee's ear before kissing it.

"It's not your fault Greg. Please—it's not your fault!"

"He attacked you to get back at me," House insisted, pulling away only enough to see his lover's face. When Clee saw a tear glistening on House's cheek he brushed it away gently with his hand then pulled House into a long, loving kiss that he seemed to need just as much as House did.

When their lips parted Clee put his hands on both of House's cheeks. "It scared me, I won't lie. But Lucas was here out of revenge that he had no right to be seeking. You didn't do anything wrong, Greg. In fact, you did the right thing in suing Princeton-Plainsboro. If you hadn't stood up to them and got the ball rolling with investigating the illegal practices that were taking place not only you but a number of other employees would have been robbed by those criminals. Did you see the paper today?"

House shook his head, not really wanting to discuss the news at that particular moment.

"Well, several members of the hospital board as well as members of the administration at PPTH were arrested yesterday on several counts of fraud and embezzlement among other charges." Clee told him with a half-smile. "Dr. Cuddy and the hospital's Chief Financial Officer were among those charged."

House looked away from Clee to a spot on the wall just over the younger man's shoulder. He was thinking that he should feel badly about Cuddy being arrested and be there for her like she was for him during his legal troubles a few years before. Then he remembered that she had been victimizing him directly and purposefully and hadn't yet shown remorse. The crimes he had committed had not been against her directly in any way. That was where the difference lay. The repercussions of his actions had often touched her in their wake but he had never purposely done anything to hurt her and personally benefit from that hurt. What she had done to him she was conscious of, did willingly, and couldn't blame on the influence of the tumor in her brain because most of her actions predated her illness by years.

It hurt him to know that. It hurt him because he had cared so much for her for so long, not knowing that she was playing him and other employees like a fool. The betrayal sat like a lump of acid in the pit of his stomach and tasted worse than bile in his mouth.

"Good," House said flatly and then met Clee's gaze again. "I want you to come home with me. You're due to be discharged on Wednesday anyway, so If I take you home tomorrow morning it will only be one day early. It's safer there than here anyway."

"Greg, if you can convince my doctor to spring me from here a day early I'll make it very, _very_ worth the trouble," the surgeon told him, embracing House close again so he had access to the diagnostician's jaw line and neck. He began to lick and nibbled House's flesh. "Believe me, I'll be more than happy to do it," he murmured between licks, nibbles and bites.

"Hell," House said huskily, his breathing quickening as his arousal built, "I'm going to go grab a wheelchair and smuggle you out tonight!" He lay down next to Clee on the too-narrow bed, half of him covering the other man and he set to work necking with him properly. After a while they both settled in to get some sleep holding each other under the light hospital blanket.

House could feel Clee trembling ever so slightly in his arms even after he fell asleep. There was no way he would allow anyone to terrorize or hurt Clee again. It would happen over House's dead body, if it came to that.

**Monday, July 18, 2010; 9:07 P.M.**

Chase was awakened from his fitful sleep by a gentle hand and voice touching his shoulder and whispering in his ear. He hadn't been sleeping for long since returning from Radiology about a half-hour before. He groaned from the pain he felt seemingly everywhere all at once; it made him feel incredibly nauseous. Opening his eyes slowly so they had a chance to adjust to the increased light reaching them, he saw Hutton crouched next to the sofa. Her expression was serious, but Chase didn't know her well enough to be able to interpret its meaning with any accuracy.

Realizing she was there with news about Thirteen he sat up anxiously—and too quickly. His head began to spin and he felt his stomach readying to bring up its meager contents.

Hutton seemed to recognize this and hurried to grab her wastebasket and hand it to Chase just before he vomited into it. When his heaving was done she set the basket aside and handed him some tissues to wipe his face and mouth. He was trembling from pain, weakness, and fear.

"Deep breaths and exhale them slowly," Hutton instructed soothingly, placing a gentle hand on his back between his shoulder blades and rubbing small circles. "You need to slow down, Dr. Chase. House was right about the concussion, I think."

"House is almost always right when it comes to medicine, when he has all the information he wants and someone isn't lying to or hiding something from him," Chase said weakly. "You have news concerning Remy?"

"She's out of surgery and currently in Recovery but I was told that she'll be transferred to the ICU shortly," Hutton told him. "There's something you should know before you go in to see her."

His heart skipped a beat. "What's wrong?"

"Dr. Hadley made it through surgery," the psychiatrist answered carefully. "However, she's currently listed as critical and unstable. You'll want to get to see her right away. Since you're in no condition to rush about on your own I brought a wheelchair. Do you need a hand up?"

He was about to insist that he didn't but when he went to lift himself up again the dizziness struck again as well. Reluctantly he nodded. Hutton draped his arm over his shoulder and wrapped her arm around his waist, taking care not to bump his injured arm.

"Slowly on three," she said softly. "One…two…three."

Together they managed to get him to his feet with only a little dizziness and she helped him to the wheelchair. Once Chase was seated she buckled him in and pushed him at jog to ICU. Thirteen had just been brought down from Recovery and was being set up in her IC bed by a pair of nurses when they arrived. Chase impatiently waited until they were finished before taking control of the wheelchair.

"Thank you, Dr. Hutton," he said appreciatively.

Hutton nodded with a hint of a smile. You're welcome. And call me Olivia. I'll just be in the visitor's lounge if you need me," she informed him but by this time he had already wheeled himself up to Thirteen's bedside and was oblivious to the psychiatrist, his sole attention on the young woman who lay unconscious on the bed. Her long, medium brown hair was splayed across the white pillow and her skin was very pale, almost as white as the linens. Remy's long, dark eyelashes stood out against her cheeks and even her lips looked drained of pigment. Chase checked her vitals. Her heart rate was nearly one hundred when it was usually seventy and the ECG showed a disturbingly irregular rhythm. The blood pressure reading was 99 over 65 and fluctuating. She was no longer intubated but did wear an oxygen mask feeding her a high O₂ mix of air to keep her sats at a ninety-five.

He would have rather seen it at ninety-seven or higher but doubted it would ever get that high again.

Chase was an intensivist; he knew better than most what those readings indicated and he hated it, wanted to deny it but couldn't so he looked away from the monitors and focused on Thirteen's lovely face. He took her hand in both of his. It was cool and completely limp and he encased it in the warmth of his own. He brought it to his lips and kissed it tenderly many times as tears pricked his eyes. There was no way he was about to let them fall; he wanted to remain strong for her, even if there was very little he (or anyone else) could do for her except wait and hope that the pressors worked to bring her B.P. up and her body rallied enough to begin breathing on its own again.

Releasing her hand he wheeled himself backwards to reach the chart at the end of the bed then pulled up right beside her again. Inside the chart Chase found the DNR order and sighed. It only made sense that Thirteen would have one; she knew that she faced a future of slow, painful, debilitating disease and certain death. If she had the opportunity to die in a quicker, more humane way she didn't want some good-intentioned doctor or nurse to try to prevent it beyond normal care and maintenance. Still, as selfish as it was, he wished he could just tear the damned thing up into tiny pieces; but he wouldn't do that because he respected her too much to go against her final wishes that way.

He'd known when he had allowed himself to admit that he was in love with her that he was foolish to try to pursue any kind of romantic relationship with a dying woman; Chase hadn't intended on kissing her and had been surprised when she had reciprocated instead of slugging him. Neither had he planned on sweeping her off of her feet and carrying her to bed where he made slow, passionate love to her. He hadn't wanted to laugh and cry at the same time when she cried out in ecstasy with her orgasm and he'd come a second later. Holding her in his arms and whispering into her ear just how much she meant to him only to hear her cry and tell him that she loved him too but being in a relationship with her was only a recipe for agony for him hadn't been part of the plan either. It had just happened and thinking back on it he didn't regret for a moment that any of it had occurred. She had been right, though, about the agony he would experience as he watched her suffer and die far too young.

Only she wasn't dying five to ten years from now. She was dying today and it was too soon, too goddamned, fucking soon! He would have had time to prepare had she died from the progression of her Huntington's. Her leaving him now was happening so unexpectedly that his mind and heart couldn't keep up much less act in unison.

He set the chart aside and looked up to find Thirteen awake and watching him with heavy-lidded eyes. Hers were misting over as well. Chase took her hands again and brought them to his lips. He had to swallow hard several times to keep the sobs at bay.

"Hello," Chase said to her, _sotto voce._ "Nice of you to drop in to say hi."

The corners of Thirteen's lips curved upward. She appeared to be trying to pull one hand away but wasn't strong enough. He released that hand, setting it gently down at her side. With great effort she slid her hand up over her body to her mouth where she proceeded to pull the mask away from her mouth.

"You look terrible," she told him in a hoarse whisper that Chase had to strain to hear. "Are you okay?"

Chase shook his head in dismay, but he couldn't help but to smile sadly. He took control of the oxygen mask and slipped it back over her mouth. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

The concern lines on her forehead softened somewhat. Thirteen indicated that she want to say something so Chase lifted the mask momentarily.

"And Justin?"

"He's shaken up but otherwise no worse for wear," Chase assured her, glancing up at her monitors every-so-often. She was weakening. "You need to rest."

"Quit treating me like a fragile flower," she told him. "I'm dying, Robert."

He wanted to argue with her, assure her that she wasn't, that she was going to be alright even though he knew that was a lie. His desire for denial was more for his own comfort than for hers, Chase knew, and he chastised himself again for his selfishness.

"Yes," Chase whispered, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. A tear escaped from one of his eyes and dripped onto his twills.

"How long?"

He opened his eyes to look into hers. They were so beautiful…"Not long." Then he added, "Your father wasn't home when the hospital called but they are continuing to try to contact him."

"Don't tell him about…the Huntington's," she insisted, shaking her head ever so slightly. Chase put the mask down over her mouth and she hungrily sucked in the air, her body's instinct for survival kicking in spite of her resignation to death. After a few deep breaths he lifted the mask. "Doesn't know…doesn't need to. Just tell him about the shooting. Tell him that…I love him…"

Chase nodded. Even as she was dying she didn't want her father to agonize over the fact that she had been dying at a young age from the same disease that he'd watched his wife die from and was watching his son dying from, too. At least her father would be spared having to watch her gradually deteriorate like the rest of his family.

"I will. Remy, I love you. I wish that we had more time," he told her, caressing her face with his hand, savoring the feel of her skin, recording it permanently into his mind.

"It's better…this way," she told him, and it was obvious that nearly all of her life-energy was gone. Chase held her hand tightly as if by doing so he could keep her from the reaper's clutches—but he knew he couldn't.

"How-?"

"I'm not in pain," she answered, her lips turning upward again. "I can actually tell you…that I love…you too. In five years…I wouldn't…be able to. Now kiss me, Robert…I want to go with you …kissing me."

Chase forced himself out of the chair, ignored the dizziness and pain, and somehow managed to join her on the bed. He wrapped his arms around her, unable to hold back the tears but managing with the sobs for now. He was losing another woman he loved, only this time she wasn't choosing to walk away, but instead was being snatched away by an enemy Chase couldn't defeat, at least in her case. He had one arm around her shoulders and the hand on the other arm removed her mask and then cupped her cheek.

"I love you so much," Chase whispered, leaned in, and kissed her tenderly, slowly. He could feel her respond slightly but mostly she smiled against his mouth until her breaths became short, halted and erratic. He continued to kiss her despite knowing that these were the last breaths she would ever take in.

Then it was over. She went still and limp in his arms, exhaling once and then breathing no more. The alarms from the monitors screamed out, bringing the nursing personnel running, but they stopped at the door. She had a signed DNR. There was nothing more they could or would do.

He stopped kissing her and drew away slightly to look into her dull, lifeless eyes. He swallowed hard at the lump in his throat but it wouldn't go down. "Time of death," Chase was barely able to say, "Nine-twenty one p.m."

One of the nurses grabbed her chart and wrote it in as well as documenting other final information.

Chase gently closed Thirteen's eyelids and then hugged her lifeless body for as long as the staff would allow him. He didn't argue when they told him it was time for him to let go. One nurse helped him off the bed and back into the wheelchair. He thanked her and then wheeled himself out of the room, finding Hutton standing just outside the door waiting for him.

"Where would you like me to take you right now?" Hutton asked him understandingly. There were no annoying questions or platitudes of sympathy from her. He knew that she was a widow and therefore knew what it was like to lose the person she loved more than anyone else in the world. She knew what to do and say, and what not to.

"The Men's room," he told her, knowing that he was going to start sobbing any moment and really not wanting to do it there in the open with staring eyes all around him.

Hutton simply nodded, took control of the wheelchair and pushed him to a staff washroom nearby.

"I can take it from here, thanks," Chase whispered.

"I'll make certain of your privacy," was all she said before pushing the door open and holding it for him. Chase gave her a look of appreciation before entering the empty bathroom. Once the door was shut and locked he leaned forward in his chair, covered his face and began to sob until he had no tears left.

House was standing outside of the bathroom instead of Hutton when Chase finally emerged from the bathroom. He was walking, pushing the empty wheelchair in front of him and using it for support and balance. The younger man appeared defeated, exhausted beyond his years, and dangerously pale. He was trembling from head to toe.

The diagnostician had heard about Thirteen and had forced down his own anger over what had happened to her and why for a better time to deal with it. He'd also been advised by Hutton that Chase and Thirteen had been more than just friends, as if House hadn't already figured that one out for himself. Looking at Chase, House wondered how much of what he was seeing was grief and how much was due to the concussion and bodily trauma he'd received earlier.

"Chase," House said to him as the intensivist passed him slowly, pushing the wheelchair aimlessly. He didn't even look up at his boss or otherwise acknowledge that House was there in any observable fashion. House caught up to him, even limping, and walked beside him a couple of steps before grabbing the wheelchair and stopping it.

Chase looked at him blankly, his eyes glassy, unfocused. A frown of concern threatened to emerge on House's brow. He tried not to let on that he actually did care about the Australian.

"You're acting like a zombie," House told him bluntly.

Chase's eyes shifted to a spot just over House's shoulder but he didn't respond verbally.

"I heard about Thir—uh, Remy," House told him, uncharacteristically gently. "I…She was a good doctor. She'll be missed." It was as close to admitting that he was going to miss her and that her death had affected him as House was able to go.

Chase nodded this time, so at least the diagnostician knew that he'd heard him and that there wasn't anything neurologically wrong with his hearing.

"She was." Chase agreed, his voice hoarse, quavering. He stood a step towards his employer and mentor before stopping short. "House, I…"

"I know it's fucked up, but this was an easier way for her to die, Robert," House told him very quietly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually used Chase's given name; perhaps there hadn't been a previous time. It didn't matter.

Chase took a step towards him and his knees buckled. He was close enough that House could grab him and awkwardly direct him to lean against him while trying to keep the both of them upright. He was, in reality, embracing the younger man and even though Chase managed to find strength for his knees again he didn't pull out of the hug, but returned it. House felt uncomfortable but he didn't pull back right away either. When he heard a sniffle come from Chase House sighed and patted his back twice in an attempt to be comforting.

House imagined the two of them, both having grown up without good father-figures, both damaged in their own ways. He would never admit to it if interrogated but House had thought more than once that if he'd ever had a son he had hoped he would turn out like Chase. He knew Chase saw him in a mentor—and perhaps even father—role. If this was what he needed to get through this then House was willing to grit his teeth and give it to him. It helped that there were no witnesses currently.

Chase broke the embrace after a while. There was a wet patch on the shoulder of House's button up from tears shed and the Australian's eyes were swollen and red.

"I'm admitting you tonight," House told him. "You're film came back there's a small bleed in your skull, not enough to even drain, but I want to be certain you're here in case the bleeding continues and it becomes an emergency. If it doesn't bleed any more, then you'll be discharged tomorrow morning."

"House—no! I—"

"You have nothing to take care of," the diagnostician told him, knowing that Chase felt responsible to see to arrangements that weren't his to make. Thirteen's father was listed as her next of kin and therefore had the responsibility of what happened with her remains now. "Her father is en route. Now get your ass back into that wheelchair and get an orderly to push you down to admitting. I already called it in."

"Remy gave me a message to tell her father," Chase insisted.

"You can tell him that she said she loved him tomorrow," House told him. "I have his cellphone number if he leaves Philadelphia before then."

Chase exhaled and nodded, admitting, "I do feel like shit." He sat down in the chair and began to slowly wheel himself to the nearest nursing station. He looked absolutely pathetic.

House sighed silently and limped up to him, hanging his cane over the chair back and grabbing the handles. He pushed Chase toward the elevators, using the chair for balance and support. Neither of them said a word about the uncharacteristic kindness House was displaying and the topic would never be mentioned again.


	58. Chapter 58 Part 3 Ch 24

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**A/N 2:** This chapter has not been checked over so you will find a large number of errors but I wanted to give youy something because it's been so long since I last posted. Right now RL is very crazy for me so writing has become difficult to find the time and mental energy to do. Thanks for still showing interest.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Saturday, July 24, 2010; 8:01 A.M.**

Clee awoke wrapped up in House's arms in House's bed and smiled. It was the perfect way to begin the day and he hoped every morning for the rest of his life would be like this. He loved his partner's smell, House's soft snoring, the weight of his sleeping arms and legs as they wrapped around him, and the peaceful look on House's normally tense face. Clee slowly eased himself out from underneath House's possessive embrace, having to use the bathroom. He was just about free when House sensed his movement and quickly moved to grab him and pull him even tighter against his body. Clee sighed and smiled slightly.

"Greg," the surgeon said softly, "I know you hear me. I have to take a piss. Now, if you want to sleep in it that's up to you but I—"

House freed him with a disgruntled groan. One electric blue eye opened to look at him. "Hurry up."

"I'll be quick and then you can go," Clee assured him as he swung his legs off the side of the bed and standing up—not with the same piss and vinegar he used to have but steadily regaining his strength daily. Speaking of piss…

"I don't have to go," House replied, closing his eye again. "I want you to get back here quick 'cause it's cold."

"It's seventy-two degrees in here," Clee said from the master bathroom where House couldn't see the teasing smile he wore. "It's not cold."

"Just shut up and come back to bed," House retorted impatiently. "I want my morning nookie."

Clee finished and flushed the toilet then washed his hands before returning to the bedroom. "I want morning nookie too but we can't. It's after eight and Dr. Hadley's funeral is at ten. We both need to shower, dress, have breakfast—"

House opened both eyes now and glared at him with his 'Seriously?' expression. "We have plenty of time. You're not turning into a chick on me, are you?"

A sly smile accompanied Clee's response, "Oh no. I'm one hundred percent man in the flesh, baby. Tell you what, we can engage in some shower-time fun but you have to get up now if you want my ass because I'm going to go have a shower now and I'm taking it with me."

Clee turned and sauntered slowly back into the bathroom, started the shower and then stepped in to the spray, counting under his breath. He didn't reach eight before House was out of bed and standing behind Clee, snaking his arms around his waist, pressing his naked body against Clee's and rubbing his morning erection between his ass cheeks. An amused grin warmed the younger man's face. House was getting quicker in getting out of bed; the day before yesterday it had taken him ten seconds. That thought was lost the moment House found _that_ spot behind his ear and began to kiss and suck there. A moan left him and he turned to face his lover, kissing House hard on the mouth. That time in the hospital had been too long away from House's touch, his strong arms, curious tongue, and dexterous, sensual hands and of course, from the man's impressive cock and the incredible things it did to and for Clee.

After incredible shower sex and then using the shower for its more mundane purpose they dressed quickly. Clee's eyes followed every line and curve of House's body, savoring every bit of it until it was covered. However, House dressed in a crisp white shirt and black suit was an impressive sight too.

"Forget the tie," Clee told him when House reached for one. He stepped up to him and began to undo the top buttons. "Just leave the collar of your shirt open like so. Hmm, needs something." Clee went to the deep-colored wooden box House had brought over to his place along with the other items Clee would need as he convalesced.

"You don't think I should wear a tie to the funeral?" House asked, surprised.

"You hate ties," Clee responded. "You can look respectable and not have to wear a tie." He turned around with a white gold chain in his hands. House recognized it. It was simple and masculine and he had once mentioned to the surgeon that he liked it. However, from the look on House's face it was clear that he wasn't certain he would like it on him.

"I'll look like a seventies disco freak," House commented, frowning.

"Only if you wear several of these, lower a couple more buttons and put on a polyester pantsuit," Clee assured him as he wrapped the chain around House's neck and clasped it. He then put a kiss on the side of House's neck before backing up to take a look at him. "You look incredible, Greg. Trust me, it'll be fine. Remy never struck me as the uptight, traditional type anyway. You told me she mentioned in her will that she wanted an Irish wake. You really should wear jewelry more often—it looks good on you."

House harrumphed at that but went to the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror. Clee watched from the door, waiting to see what House's opinion on how he looked would be.

"I look okay, I guess," House said, though frowning slightly. Clee smiled to himself. He knew that House would simply take the chain off if he didn't want to wear it so he wasn't going with it simply to keep from disappointing the younger man. Their relationship wasn't like that and he was so glad that it wasn't.

"You look absolutely delicious," Clee told him. "Speaking about delicious, you were going to take me out for breakfast, remember?"

"I don't seem to recall that," House responded, turning around to face him. There was a smile in the way the corners of his eyes crinkled and the softness with which he looked at him. "However, seeing as you did compromise concerning morning nookie, I think I can take you out for breakfast for once."

Clee wrapped his arms around House's waist and pulled the older man toward him. House looked distracted when Clee moved in to kiss him; he stopped halfway there.

"You liked Remy, didn't you? She wasn't just an employee…you considered her a friend."

"It was a quicker, less painful way for her to die," House responded. "She was marked for an early death before birth."

"Yes, but that wasn't what I asked," Clee answered patiently. "It's okay to grieve the loss of a friend, you know, and you don't have to hide it from me. I love you, Greg. I'm not going to ridicule you if you admit that her death has affected you and that you're going to miss her because I already know that it has, and you will, whether you admit to it or not. You're an incredibly tenderhearted man under the prickles and I love that about you."

House allowed a half-smile onto his face. He brushed Clee's cheek with his hand. "I love _everything_ about you." House closed the gap and they kissed with passion. When they parted Clee pulled House into a close embrace, resting his head on the older man's well developed and sculpted shoulder.

"Have you thought more about my suggestion?" Clee asked him softly.

"About living together?" House clarified. Clee nodded instead of answering verbally.

"Yes," House answered.

"Well?"

"We already are," House told him, tightening the embrace. "I see no reason for that to end once you've full recovered. We can worry about where some other time. As long as I'm with you I don't care where we live."

"Ditto," Clee agreed, lifting his head and kissing House's temple. "Thank you, Greg."

"Don't thank me," House told him after a harrumph. "My motives are purely selfish, I assure you."

Clee reluctantly pulled away from the embrace, nodding. He kissed House tenderly on the mouth. "We should get going if we don't want to be late. You okay?"

"Okay?" House said, raising a rakish eyebrow. "From the way you groaned and begged for more last night I'd say I'm extraordinary."

Clee chuckled and shook his head at him. "Let's go, stud."

**Saturday, July 24, 2010; 10:00 A.M.**

It was cloudy, hot and humid. The crowd of mourners had left the formal service at the nursing home twenty minutes ago and drove to the cemetery where Remy Hadley's body was to be laid to rest in a plot next to her mother's. A number of familiar and very familiar faces were present in the crowd. House limped next to Clee, the latter having his hand resting lightly on the former's back protectively, prepared to grab House and keep him from falling should he lose his balance or trip on the uneven lawn. Ordinarily House would have been irritated by the act, but today he didn't have the heart to tell his lover to back off and let him deal with the terrain on his own. He knew Clee's only intent was to help him should he need it, and suspected that the other intent was to offer him emotional support through the simple contact.

Somehow, Clee knew what House needed even when House didn't.

They stood along the periphery of the crowd, able to see what was happening. Clear, brilliant blue eyes moved over the faces of those present. There was, of course, Thirteen's father, a weathered ghost of a man who had lost more than his fair share in life and then some. The emptiness in his eyes was haunting. House had no children and would never know the horror of experiencing the death of a child. For that he was very, very grateful. Beside him was a man slightly older than Thirteen had been, sitting shaking and spasming in a wheelchair. Her brother, apparently, a sibling House hadn't known about who had been as unlucky as she had by inheriting Huntington's from their mother. His disease was considerably more advanced than his sisters. House wondered if thirteen had had much to do with her older brother, or had she avoided him so that she couldn't see what her future had held for her. House knew that in his insane act of seeking revenge had been inadvertently merciful. It dripped of such dark irony that House wanted to puke.

He saw Chase standing not far removed from Thirteen's family. House was mildly surprised to find that he was flanked by both Foreman and Allison Cameron. Somehow she had been informed of the death and had taken time off to fly to New Jersey for the funeral. House doubted that she and Thirteen had been friends, but there was the possibility that he was wrong; he was more easily persuaded to believe that his former duckling had known about Chase's feelings for Thirteen and had come as moral support for him. Taub and his wife Rachel were also present in the crowd. Taub looked grim, his face long, eyes troubled. The only person not present from Princeton, other than for Cuddy, was…

House sighed, closing his eyes for a moment or two. No matter where he was there always seemed to be something that reminded him about Wilson. When was that going to end?

He felt a warm hand gently grasp his and hold it. He opened his eyes again to see Clee watching him with a combination of concern and curiosity.

"You okay?" the surgeon whispered.

Trying to hide the fact that he was experiencing guilt, House smirked at him slightly and gave him a quick nod. Clee continued to look at him quizzically for a few seconds before returning his attention to the crowd. There were several faces from St. Luke's as well; Hutton stood with Anderson, who had an arm wrapped around her waist, Chase's team was present as was House's out of respect for a colleague. Xander Roth was also in attendance. The rest were people Thirteen knew in one way or another and had been affected by her life enough to be present today.

At one point in his life, House would have bet the farm that the number of people who would grieve him when he died could be counted on one hand. Now he knew otherwise. How had his life changed so radically in such a short time. It was the same question he asked himself daily, usually when he woke up to find Clee lying in his arms. He was happy, really and truly happy, in spite of the fact that he had just lost someone he had considered a friend. He couldn't help but wonder when the other shoe was going to fall. Until it did, however, he was going to enjoy this while it lasted.

Odd thoughts to be having at a funeral.

Later that afternoon House sat at the bar at Clancy's Pub and Grill, which had been rented out for the evening for Thirteen's wake, staring at his glass of Coke and wishing for a little Cuban freedom. He sighed; that life was behind him now. He missed the smoky taste of good fifteen year single malt or the warm fire of his favorite bourbon at the end of the day, but not the life that had come with it. That life had brought him, ultimately, misery—especially when he'd added Vicodin to the mix. It had cost him so much. Yet, if he had never gone through all that pain he never would have had to go through rehab, faced the rejection of first Cuddy and then Wilson, wouldn't have tried to end his life which led to Mayfield a second time where he met Hutton.

He looked across the room where Hutton sat with some other people from the hospital talking and laughing. She, too, was a member of the Prohibition club by necessity, nursing her cup of coffee unenthusiastically. If he hadn't met her he'd still be in Mayfield, for one, but he also never would have met Justin Clee and his new friends, never would have had a second chance (okay, third chance. Oh, alright! His fifth chance and counting!) with his career, never would have grown more independent, less needy, and increasingly accepting of himself. He was even sort of part of a caring family when it came to the psychiatrist and her two kids and their acceptance of him.

He was happy, life was good—so why couldn't he be satisfied with what he had? Why did he have to think about Wilson no matter where he went and what he did? House looked to where Clee was talking with Roth at the other end of the bar. He had the sexiest, most caring and patient man in the world who loved him, it seemed, unconditionally.

_Yup_, House thought to himself as he stared at the scotch that was being poured for the woman standing a few feet away from him, _I'm a good-for-nothing bastard._ He needed air and to get away from the temptation that was all around him. He got up quickly, grabbed his cane and hurried as quickly as his leg would allow him to the exit. He walked until he found himself standing in the middle of the parking lot. The sun had just set a half-an-hour before and toward the horizon there was still a hint of light from the sun curling up from beneath the earth. Up above the brightest stars were visible in spite of the city lights.

House took a deep breath of polluted air and let it out slowly and repeated it twice more to calm his nerves and expel the strong edge to his cravings. He might not have been a legitimate addict in his life, but he had been a functioning alcoholic. It was something he had just come to terms with in his sessions with Hutton. He'd denied it for so long that when he was finally ready to admit it and had done so it had felt like the world had been lifted off of his shoulders.

"Greg?"

The diagnostician startled briefly and then turned around. He grinned when he saw Clee approach him, his hands shoved into his pockets and looking concerned.

"Hey."

"You okay?" his partner asked him, freeing his hands and wrapping his arms loosely around House's waist. House nodded and without saying anything he pulled Clee close and held him tight, seeking comfort and reassurance. He buried his face into the crook of Clee's neck and breathed in the scent of him and his cologne combined before placing a kiss there. Clee must have sensed House's neediness at the moment because he embraced him back, stroking the hair at the back of House's head comfortingly.

"Talk to me," Clee murmured gently.

House hesitated a moment before he did. "I don't deserve you, Justin. You deserve so much more than what I'm able to give. I'm a bastard and one of these days you'll realize it and walk away and you'll be right to do it."

Clee tightened his embrace and shook his head. "Never. I love you too much and I'm never going to leave you. What's brought this on? This is more than just melancholy over the death of a colleague and friend. Open up to me. I want to help."

"You _can't_," House whispered desperately, swallowing hard to keep himself from weeping.

"Why not? What is it? Are you sick?"

"No," House assured him, kissing his neck again, "I'm not sick."

"Is it your leg? Is the pain returning?"

The pain in House's leg had been less than usual the last couple of days, likely because of the gabapentin starting to kick in and helping with the neuralgic aspect to his chronic suffering. However, that wasn't the problem either.

"No, it's not that."

Clee sighed, kissing his temple. "Baby, _please_ tell me what's going on!"

But House couldn't and he knew it. It would only hurt Clee unnecessarily; Wilson was gone and even if he were still around House had made his choice, it had been the right one, and there was no way he was going to let the man in his arms go. No, this was a mental battle House knew he had to wage on his own. In a very real way, Wilson was just as much an addiction to him as any drug; missing Wilson, as with alcohol, would be a daily struggle he alone would have to face to avoid the temptation of relapsing.

"I…all that alcohol," House answered in partial honesty, "was getting to be a bit much, and I—well…I just needed to get away from it. You deserve someone who isn't constantly craving stuff that is harmful to him."

"I don't deserve someone wise enough to know his limitations and brave enough to face them and act appropriately to avoid succumbing to his weaknesses?" Clee responded, taking House's shoulder and pushing him away just enough so that he could see the diagnostician's face. "Huh. Well, too bad! I've laid claim to you and now you belong to me and that's that. I should have been more sensitive about how the wake and the drinking would be difficult for you. I'm sorry. What do you say we go home, curl up on the sofa and watch some TV? Hm?"

An enthused smile appeared on House's face. "Can we neck like teenagers and pretend that we're in the backseat of a convertible at a drive-in?"

"Whatever you want," Clee said, grinning indulgently. "If you're lucky I might even put-out."

"Hussy!" House said in mock-horror before kissing his lover with lots of tongue, grabbing his ass and squeezing; that earned him a deep-throated groan of approval.

"I prefer the term slut, thank you," Clee shot back playfully when their lips parted. "What are we waiting for? Let's go!"

**Monday, July 26, 2010; 9:00 A.M.**

Norma Bell looked up from her laptop when her boss arrived at his temporary office. Ferry and Preston did the same. Following behind him was a pretty teenage girl dressed professionally carrying a laptop case in one hand and a motorcycle helmet matching his in the other. She frowned ever so slightly, closing her Macbook. House hung up first his helmet, jacket and backpack then took the teen's things and hung them as well. Ferry cast Bell a questioning glance but the oncologist simply shrugged.

"Good morning, people," House said somewhat cheerfully as he pointed out a folding chair to the teen and went to the white board. The teen nodded, grabbed the chair and opened it. She set it in the corner of the office and sat down, watching House alertly and appearing to be oblivious to the curious looks she was receiving from House's team.

"Take your daughter to work day, Dr. House?" Ferry blurted, her curiosity getting the best of her.

"Please," Stephania said with a smirk, "if that was my father do you think I would be caught dead hanging out with him?"

"Sounds like you," Preston quipped dryly.

"This is Stephania Hutton," House announced, ignoring him and turning his back to them to begin to write on the board, "Dr. Hutton's daughter, or, as I like to call her, my spy. Say hi to the bumbling doctors, Steph."

"Hi," she said in obedience, smiling amicably.

"I'm preparing Stephania for her science project presentation for Science camp. The fair is on the thirtieth, seven-thirty at the university's Fowler Pavilion. You are all _required _to attend or face bed pan duty in Geriatrics for a week," House told them, turning around again to face them. "Her project is a presentation on 'A Day in the Life of a Diagnostician'. I've been preparing her for weeks and she's a quick study. Today she'll be following us, and when I say that of course I mean _you_, as you carry out your duties around the hospital. She has strict orders to simply observe, not to touch, to keep out of the way, and to express an opinion only when asked for one. Don't count on her to be able to obey the last one; she's female and sixteen. She's allowed to ask questions unless they are pointless and annoying. I will leave what that means to your judgment."

"Does she fetch coffee, by chance?" Preston asked sarcastically.

"Only mine,"' House returned without missing a beat. "Back off and get your own slave."

Stephania rolled her eyes and shook her head. Bell couldn't help but smile in amusement at the girl's reactions to House. She was both disgusted at him and yet affectionate at the same time; House was curmudgeonly protective of her, making it clear that no one on his team was to use or mistreat Stephania while she was among them.

"Okay, new case," House announced even though his team already knew that and opened their files. "Ferry, go."

"Harry Duncan, Eighteen year old male, collapsed while watching a movie at a local theater. Arrived at the University hospital unconscious, critical and unstable with severe respiratory distress, tachycardic, BP in the toilet, perspiring heavily with no fever, and legs undergoing violent myoclonic jerking. Blood panels came back normal, chem-7…., visual investigation showed no evidence of recent trauma to his head or body, X-rays came back showing no evidence of anything unusual intracranially. He complained of transient muscular and neural pain through his entire body. His parents reported that he appeared pale for a few days before his collapse, that he doesn't use drugs but has drank alcohol occasionally and that he's active in sports including soccer, baseball and basketball. The doctors at University were unable to diagnose the problem so his parents had him transferred here. Currently he is in and out of consciousness, and remains critical and unstable."

House wrote down the list of symptoms as Ferry quoted them. Bell spoke up.

"Was a drug panel done? I hate to sound cliché but it's not like he'd be the first teenager to use them; and what about the history that was taken?"

"That's part of the problem," Preston responded. "This history is crap." He held up the single sheet from his file. "They take a better history at the DMV. You're going to tell me that this kid has never touched drugs once in his life? 'Cause that's what Mama told the ER resident. Give me a break!"

"Some teens really _don't_ use drugs," Stephania cut in hesitantly. "Some don't for religious reasons, others simply because they don't want to face the side-effects and damage done to their bodies. Some don't like to feel out of control of their minds and behaviors. It's not fair to assume that this Harry guy is a druggie just because he's a teenager."

House had turned around from the white board when she spoke up, a curious eyebrow rising on his face and a corner of his mouth quirking upward slightly. Ferry rolled her eyes in disdain.

XXXX condescendingly engaged Stephania. "Most teenagers brought into hospital with symptoms like his have been indulging in recreational drugs, usually dangerous ones cooked in make-shift labs with varying chemical components in varying concentrations. We're not talking about a small portion of the population."

"I'm not questioning that," Stephania answered him, lifting her chin slightly and gaining confidence. "But aren't assumptions dangerous in medicine? Shouldn't there be evidence to back it up?"

"And you're going to tell us that you've never done drugs so you know what you're talking about?" Ferry asked skeptically.

"No," Stephania said calmly, but there was a flicker of indignation in her eyes, "I'm not going to tell you that. However, what I've done is irrelevant; what's important is what Harry has done. Has anyone thought of asking _him_ while he is conscious?"

"Obviously not," House stated, interrupting the argument to bring the discussion back to what they did know. "Everybody lies; he'd cover up any drug use to keep his parents from finding out. A standard drug panel was run and came back negative."

"Which doesn't necessarily mean he doesn't use them, just that the panel didn't detect them," Bell concluded. "False negatives happen all the time. Drug abuse is the best fit for what the symptoms are now."

"Agreed," Preston chimed in, nodding.

House wrote that on the white board next to the symptoms. "What else?"

"Could be a drug interaction gone bad, or rare side-effects of any medication he may be on," Bell suggested. "Do we know if he is in fact on medication and if so, what they are?"

"Nothing about it either way in this useless history," Ferry grumbled

"What about environmental?" Preston threw in. "A severe allergic reaction could explain his symptoms as could poisoning by any number of toxins."

House was writing these suggestions down. He then turned to Stephania.

"Steph, any ideas?" he asked her. Four pairs of eyes were now trained on her. The girl shifted uncomfortably in her seat and cleared her throat.

"Um, well it's most likely not an infection of any kind due to the negative results on the screening and the lack of fever," she answered softly. "Hypoglycemia presents with tremors, sweating, irritability, lightheadedness, hunger and loss of consciousness. In severe cases it can cause seizures; that's why for most of this century before electroconvulsive therapy was introduced insulin was used to induce seizure activity in psychiatric patients. Even if he doesn't have diabetes there are other causes for an organic increase in insulin levels including hormonal abnormalities, pancreatic cancer and certain genetic disorders."

The three doctors on House's team just stared at her, genuinely amazed. House repressed a smile as he turned around and wrote _hypoglycemia_ under the list of symptoms and _diabetes (insulin reaction), pancreatic cancer, endocrinologic disease/disorder._

"Good," he said to all four people sitting in front of him. "Ferry and Preston go run new bacterial and viral panels, drug screens for recreational and prescription medication, a chem-20, diabetes screen, tox screen, an allergen scratch test, and another head MRI. Bell, go get a proper history and take Stephania with you; when you're done with that, you, Steph and I are going to search the kid's home. Get to it."

Preston and Ferry left the small office first. Before Bell and Stephania could leave the room, House said to the teenager, "House's rule number one, Stephania: What happens in this office stays in this office—including my assignments. Some idiots might object to my methods and your mother might try to kill me if she knew I was involving you in what may, to certain not-illuminated individuals, be considered slightly outside the law."

"We're going to pull a B&E, Stephania," Bell explained upon seeing the teen's confused expression. "Come along; I'll explain it on our way to ICU."

At the ICU Bell picked up a clipboard and a history form from the nursing station before going to Harry Duncan's room. Their patient's parents were seated around Harry's unconscious form in the hospital bed. Mr. Duncan was about forty-five with blonde hair undergoing male pattern balding, of average height and build. His wife, seated next to the bed in the only chair looked fortyish, with black hair graying slightly, fairly tall for a woman and large boned. They both looked up when Bell and Stephania entered. Both parents did a double-take when they saw Stephania, but said nothing.

"Mister and Missus Duncan?" Bell said politely. "I'm Dr. Bell. I work with Dr. House. This is Stephania and she is following me today and observing for a project. Rest assured that she will maintain the utmost discretion and will not release any information she hears here today."

"Hi," Mr. Duncan said, nodding at Stephania before turning his focus on bell. "When will we be able to speak with Dr. House directly?"

Bell wanted to tell them that they would likely never see House himself but wisely refrained. "I'm uncertain, Mr. Duncan, but rest assured that he is given frequent updates on your son's condition and is actively involved in this case. I'll be certain to tell him that you would like to speak with him. In the meantime, Dr. House sent us to take another patient history from you. He was dissatisfied with the information gathered by the University hospital staff; he likes to have a profile to work from that is as detailed as possible."

"Right now?" Mrs. Duncan asked.

"The sooner the better," Bell informed her. She grabbed her clipboard a pulled a pen out of her lab coat pocket. She bypassed the vital statistics portion of the form and moved on to the meatier questions. "Is there anyone else in your family currently suffering from an injury or illness of any kind?"

"No," Mrs. Duncan answered. "Dean, here, had a cold a couple of weeks ago but he's been fine ever since. Otherwise our family has always been quite healthy."

"Other than for Mr. Duncan, has Harry been in contact with or in the immediate vicinity of anyone who has been sick or injured?"

Harry's mother considered the question for a moment before answering. "He spent the weekend with his cousin about a month ago. Steven, his cousin, had begun to recover from an ear infection at the time; he'd already been on antibiotics for a few days before that. Harry never came down with an ear infection or a cold."

Bell jotted the information down.

"May I ask a question?" Stephania inquired, looking from Bell to the Duncan's and then back to Bell for permission. Bell looked questioningly at the Duncans and both nodded, the missus more hesitantly than her husband.

"Um, if I understand correctly from Harry's chart, you mentioned to the doctors at the university that he is very active in sports. Is that right?" Stephania asked carefully .

"Yes," Mr. Duncan answered, nodding and looking proud. "He's excellent at first base and enjoys playing guard in basketball."

"Right," Stephania acknowledged and then bit her lip thoughtfully for a moment before asking, "Hasn't he ever suffered any kind of injury playing those sports? A cut or a bruise, maybe a sprained shoulder or ankle or wrist?"

The Duncans looked at each other before Mrs. Duncan answered. "Yes, he's twisted his ankle a few times, and he plays with a lot of spirit so he's often got cuts and scrapes, or bruises. I thought you were asking if he had any serious injuries."

"Lots of bruising or bruising very easily can sometime be a sign of something more serious, like some kind of bleeding disorder," Stephania informed them, "so even things that seem small or insignificant can actually be signs or symptoms of more serious conditions. Right Dr. Bell?"

Bell looked back at Stephania for a long moment, a smile toying with the corners of her mouth. This kid was quick, she had to give her that. "That's correct Stephania. So please, answer my questions as completely as possible; don't hold back because you feel that things you've observed seem to be irrelevant or too minor to mention."

"Are you accusing us of lying?" Mr. Duncan asked, incensed.

"No, not at all," Bell assured him soothingly. "I just want you to feel at ease to tell us anything that occurs to you instead of feeling it would be foolish to do so."

He seemed to accept that answer, at least for the time being.

"Is Harry dating currently?" Bell asked, pushing forward.

"No, I don't think so," Mrs. Duncan answered, shrugging. "If he is it's something new. He broke up with a girl he'd been dating for over a year about two months ago. It was hard on him and I don't think he's ready to be dating anyone else yet."

"This is a delicate question, but one I have to ask," Bell said. "Was Harry sexually active with his ex-girlfriend?"

"How is that at all relevant?" Mr. Duncan demanded.

"If Harry was having sex with his girlfriend," Stephania spoke up, appearing frustrated with him, "he could have caught a sexually transmitted infection that could be making him sick."

"My son doesn't have sex," Mrs. Duncan told the teen firmly. "If he did I would know about it."

"Mrs. Duncan," Bell began to say but she was cut off by Stephania.

"If he was having sex, he probably wouldn't tell you unless he got caught or absolutely had to for medical reasons. It's not something people my age tell our parents, especially if we think they'll be angry or disappointed in us. We'd tell our friends first."

"Well my son isn't like you or your friends," Harry's mother told her condescendingly. "He's a good kid."

"So am I," Stephania answered, again unfazed by Mrs. Duncan's reaction. "So are a lot of teenagers who have sex. Having sex doesn't make a bad. This is twenty-ten, not eighteen-ten. Nobody is trying to bad mouth Harry; we're just trying to help and to do that we need to know these kind of things. So, do you want Harry to get better or not? It's up to you."

Bell knew she should rein the girl in, but she didn't because quite frankly she agreed with everything Stephania said. The teenager could get away with being so blunt where Bell couldn't. Still, she had to take control again.

For the Duncan's part, they appeared to be properly chastised and were looking at each other resignedly.

"I did find a strip of condoms in one of his shoes in his bedroom closet once," Mrs. Duncan admitted. His room stank of feet and I was putting Odor-eaters in his sneakers. I told Dean to talk to him about it."

"And did you?" Bell inquired, looking to Mr. Duncan and raising an eyebrow.

Mr. Duncan shifted uncomfortably on his feet, glaring at her and Stephania with no attempt to hide his hostility. "No. It never came up."

"Well, in that case we may need the name of Harry's ex-girlfriend so we can ask her a few questions. If what he's suffering from is tied to an STI then she'll need to be tested as well," Bell informed them. "What about childhood diseases? Was he vaccinated regularly? Did he ever catch the chicken pox, the measles, mumps, whooping cough or scarlet fever?"

"He had the mumps and the measles but not the other two you mentioned," Mrs. Duncan answered quickly. "Both cases were very mild with him, unlike his sister who was very sick from the measles. He had his immunizations through school including the one for meningitis in tenth grade because two classmates came down with it. He also had pneumonia once, when he was eight, but he was put on antibiotics and was fine. He's had the odd cold or bout of seasonal flu but nothing serious. As I told the doctors at the university hospital, he has always been a healthy child, rarely sick and never seriously so."

Bell scrawled the information down as quickly as she could, using her own shorthand where necessary. "Has he ever undergone any form of surgery?"

"No, never," Mr. Duncan piped up. "That is, unless you consider getting a couple of stitches to close up a cut he got playing sports surgery."

"Has anyone in his immediate and extended family ever suffered from one or more of the following: Cancer? Huntington's Disease? Parkinson's? Alzheimer's? Multiple Sclerosis? Diabetes? High blood pressure? Any bleeding disorders? Heart disease and-or defects? Stroke? Liver disease? High cholesterol? Alcohol or drug addiction? Any psychiatric illness like clinical depression or schizophrenia?"

"His grandfather, Dean's father, was a hemophiliac," Mrs. Duncan answered, "and my mother has type one diabetes."

"Margot," Mr. Duncan said to her meaningfully. His wife sighed.

"I was diagnosed with breast cancer two months ago," she admitted, averting her eyes.

Bell nodded and moved on quickly since the woman had difficulty talking about her diagnosis and Bell didn't want her to shut down on her. "Is he currently using any prescription medications that you know of?"

"No," Mrs. Duncan assured her. "He takes vitamins and some herbal remedies on occasion, drinks those protein shakes like they're going out of style, but no prescription drugs."

"What kind of herbals does he take?" This time the question came from Stephania.

"Oh, you know, the common ones. He takes Siberian ginseng for energy, gingko biloba for mental clarity, Echinacea for colds, and a combination pill daily for muscle enhancement and joint health."

"Do you know what the actual component herbals are in that pill?" Stephania asked, her eyes widening with interest. "Just because something is called an herbal medication doesn't mean it can't have side-effects and negative interactions with other herbals and pharmaceuticals. A person can even overdose on herbal medication. For example, ginkgo biloba can cause spontaneous bleeding because of the way it affects platelet efficacy. There have been reports of people on ginkgo having spontaneous intracranial bleeding without there being any kind of head injury first."

Mrs. Duncan looked to Bell for confirmation. The oncologist nodded in agreement with Stephania, growing increasingly impressed with her knowledge. Was this kid some kind of savant? It would explain House's involvement with her but the girl seemed too well adjusted.

"That's correct, and because the producers of herbal remedies aren't answerable to the FDA, there's no way to know what their potency and purity are," Bell explained. "It would be quite helpful if you could find out the name of that product so we can check it for its quoted ingredients."

"I'll try to find that out," Mrs. Duncan assured her. "Are there more questions?"

"Has Harry been under any stress lately that has been excessive or out of the ordinary for him?" Bell asked. "Any traumatic events, death in the family or of a friend, problems with peers or school work?"

"No," Mr. Duncan answered. "He's popular at school, an honor student and there have been no deaths or other traumatic events since his break-up with his girlfriend. He shook that off after a few days and has moved on."

Closing the file folder with the history form in it, Bell rose to her feet; Stephania took that as he cue to stand as well. "That's all the questions I have for now. If later you should happen to recall something you may feel is please let a nurse or one of Dr. House's team members know immediately, would you? Thanks so much for your time."

"When will we hear about what's wrong with Harry?" Mr. Duncan asked before Bell and Stephania left the room. There was an edge of desperation in his voice in spite of his efforts to appear cool and collected.

"As soon as we know anything knew we will notify you immediately," Bell assured him. She strode out of the room with Stephania keeping pace with her. Once they were out of earshot Bell pulled the teen aside into an empty waiting lounge to speak with her.

"I'm sorry for talking so much and interrupting," Stephania told her before Bell could even open her mouth. "House told me that I'm supposed to listen and keep my mouth shut unless I'm asked to speak. It was just so interesting that I couldn't help myself!"

Smiling, Bell put a hand on her shoulder as she spoke. "It's alright. I don't mind, but the other members of the team and other hospital staff in general may not appreciate it. How do you know do so much about all of this? You're what—sixteen?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Stephania acknowledged. "I've always liked science, especially biology and chemistry so this stuff really excites me. I read a lot more than I watch TV. Plus, Dr. House has been drilling me on all sorts of medical information for weeks. My brain sometimes feels like it's going to explode."

"Well don't work yourself into a dither," Bell advised her kindly. "Take some time to be a teenager, too."

"Oh, I will," Stephania assured her. "I plan on doing absolutely no thinking for the entire month of August!"

"Good plan," Bell told her, chuckling.

"Were you serious about what you said in Dr. House's office, earlier? About us breaking into somewhere? I don't think my mom would like that very much."

"Yes, I'm serious. You don't have to do it, Stephania." Bell told her.

"Of course she does!"

Bell and Stephania both jumped a little and looked over their shoulders to see House standing in the doorway. "If she doesn't she'll never know what it means to be a first-class diagnostician. Don't worry about your mother—she never has to know."

"Unless we get caught and are arrested," Stephania pointed out cynically.

"But that risk is what makes it so much fun!" House told her. "Bell, Steph and I came in on my bike today so we're taking your car. Let's get rolling."


	59. Chapter 59 Part 3 Ch 25

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Monday, July 26, 2010; 11:00 A.M.**

"This is one of those rare times when I actually miss Foreman," House muttered as he jiggled the file in the lock of the back door of the Duncan's house, a mid-sized bungalow in the Trenton 'burbs. By the looks of it the Duncans were your typical middle-class American family.

"Who?" Bell asked, standing a few feet away and keeping on the lookout for trouble.

"A former employee of Dr. House when he was still working and living in Princeton," Stephania answered for him, leaning against the house and looking bored. After a few more seconds of watching House fumble with the lock she exhaled in disgust and held out her hand toward him. "Give me that."

House looked sideways at her and snorted. "You think you can do better?"

"I _know_ I can," Stephania told him.

Scowling at her skeptically House nonetheless handed the file over to the teenager. Stephania threw it over her shoulder into the tall grass and then walked over to a basement window a few feet away. She examined the frame for a moment and peered through the window at what was inside. Smiling, Stephania pressed her hands against the glass, fingers spread out, got a good grip; with a little elbow grease she managed to slide it over to open it. She pulled the bug screen out of the opening then slid the second pane like the first, and _voila_, they had entry.

"I could have done that," House said, hiding his chagrin expertly.

"How did you know it was open?" Bell asked her, smiling.

"He's an eighteen year old boy," Stephania answered with a crooked grin, "his bedroom is in the basement, he has two parents in total denial and a tiny '4-20' tattoo just below his ear. That's how."

"Four-twenty?" Bell echoed, frowning in confusion.

Stephania was already climbing feet first through the window. "That's code for 'it's time to light your joint'. April twentieth is the official marijuana smoking day and four-twenty is also the time of day you're supposed to light up. Sheesh, you know less than my mom does! I'll go unlock the back door."

She disappeared into the house. Bell looked over to House, who was smirking.

"I suppose you knew all of that?" she asked her boss.

"Dude, all the _cool_ kids do," House told her, imitating a teenager. He was fighting a smile at the look of amused disdain his fellow was giving him.

"Sorry," Bell replied. "That's not something we talked a lot about in the church choir. Who in the church was sleeping with whom, definitely, but 'four-twenty'? Not so much."

"I thought you were smarter than to waste your time in church," House told her.

"Just for the singing and gossip and to appease my parents," Bell informed him. "Oh, and the fact that I had the biggest crush on the choir director—but that's another story."

"Do you use?" Bell asked him next. House shook his head.

"Not anymore," he told her. "No booze, opiates or other drugs used recreationally. I'm an addict—I heavily used and abused Vicodin for a long time before I ended up in the nuthouse because of it. I just recently admitted to myself that I'm an alcoholic and have quit drinking. Smoking is the only vice I have left and even with that my boyfriend hates kissing me if I've smoked one beforehand."

"Breakdown?"

"That, and opiate psychosis." House sighed. "I miss a good stiff drink after work and when my leg pain flares I can literally taste those bitter, chalky little beauties."

"I would hardly call them beauties, at least in your case," Bell told him mildly. "In your case they're pure poison."

House was quiet for a moment and then informed her, "You're right."

Both Bell and House turned to look expectantly at the door when they heard the sliding of a dead bolt. The inner door opened inward and Stephania appeared, unlocking the storm door as well. House and Bell quickly entered into the bungalow.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" House asked Stephania. "I want you to give a seminar for my team on how to break into a house."

"My mom would be so proud," she retorted, shaking her head. "Harry's bedroom smells like the septic tank when it's being emptied." She made a face of revulsion and screwed up her nose. "Not even David's bedroom smells that bad."

"You definitely have a future in home invasion and burglary," House quipped, leading the way into the kitchen.

"They have a dog," Stephania told them and both adults stopped in their tracks and looked at her warily. She smiled at their reaction. "Relax. It's in a kennel. It's the sweetest, quietest Yorkie I've ever seen."

House relaxed. "Bell, I want you to check the living room, dining room and bedrooms on the main floor. Stephania and I will cover the kitchen, bathrooms and basement."

Bell nodded, carrying her sample case and heading for the living room. House led the way to the kitchen with Stephania right behind him.

"Put you're gloves on and don't inhale too deeply or sniff anything unusual," House told the teenager. "If it's something environmental affecting the kid you don't want to risk becoming ill from it too. So tell me…what different ways of escape from your bedroom have you concocted?"

"Sorry," Stephania said breezily, "that's top secret. I could tell you but then I'd have to kill you. I don't think mom or Uncle Justin would like me too much if I had to do that."

House snorted at that as he put on his own nitrile gloves, opened the refrigerator and began to poke around inside. "I'd like to see you try. Look, I won't rat you out to _the man_, I just want to know how smart you think you are."

"You know how smart I am," she responded, earning an eye roll. "Actually, Dr. House, I haven't ever snuck out of my room. Ever. You actually have to have somewhere to go if you're going to sneak out or else it's very anti-climactic. I have one person my age I would actually call a friend. I have a lot of casual acquaintances and people who'll hang out with me when there is absolutely no one else they could be with but in reality I'm pretty much alone. I'm really not complaining; I'd rather be all alone than with disingenuous people who gossip about me behind my back or put on phony smiles when they would rather be with anybody else. I guess that's why I'd rather be around adults than my peers."

"Adults can be pricks, too," House told her, pulling a sterile swab out of his pocket, tearing the plastic off the tube it was in, and using it to swab at a small spot of what looked like mold in the back of the vegetable crisper. He stuck the swab back into the sterile tube and screwed the plastic lid back on. "Hey, pen me."

Stephania tossed him the permanent marker she carried in her purse. House marked on the tube where he found the sample and then pocketed the tube and pen, moving on to the fruit crisper.

"I know," Stephania acknowledged, slipping on her own gloves and then going through the contents of the garbage can under the sink. She screwed her nose up at the smell but soldiered on. "But at least there isn't the teenage drama element at work."

House chuckled, shaking his head. "No. The drama only gets worse."

"Good to know," she said with a sigh. "They eat a lot of meat. There are at least fifteen of those Styrofoam trays that meat is wrapped in at the supermarket and yards of bloody cellophane. Looks like there's some maggot activity, to no evidence of the consumption of frozen or canned fruit or vegetables and no peels, cores, pits or other organic waste in here. There's no compost container I can see, either. God, this stinks!"

"Tie off the bag and we'll take it back with us to test," House instructed.

"I'm certain Dr. Bell will love transporting this in her car."

"With greatness comes sacrifice," House quipped, pulling out a dripping plastic bag of liquefied kiwi. "I found the fruit."

"I think I'm going to puke," the teen said, looking away and surveying the kitchen for at least the third time. "On the surface this home looks clean and organized but in the closets and dark spaces it's disgusting. Weird." She crouched down and reached toward the back of the space under the sink. She pulled out a bottle of enzymatic drain cleaner and organically-based all-purpose cleaner. As she did that, House pulled a freezer bag out of the fridge freezer with no label on it and a slightly murky liquid frozen inside. It didn't look like water or other liquid he could recognize.

A fascinated look crossed his face. Stephania had closed the cabinet and now stood watching as he opened the zipper seal on the bag. He held it about a foot from his nose and the waved his hand over the top of the bottle to bring any fumes coming off of the concoction toward him.

"It smells like…" House began to say and then his voice trailed off and he quickly zipped it back up and bagged it. "This definitely goes back with us." He handed it back to Stephania with a stern look. "Do _not_ open that."

"Why not?" she asked, looking at him in puzzlement. "What is it?"

"You don't want to know," He told her, turning his attention to the kitchen cabinets.

"Nooo," Stephania replied, setting the bottle down on the counter. "You don't want to _tell_ me, which is weird since you brought me along with you today to observe the diagnostic process in action. It looks like…oh _god_! It _is_, isn't it?" A scandalized grin crossed her face and her eyes widened with interest. She reached for the bag. "It's—!"

Before she could touch it House's cane slammed down onto the counter between the freezer bag and her hand; he swept the bag out of her reach and towards him.

"Yes," House said tersely, "it _is_. Which makes it a definite biohazard and I'm not willing to risk having you become contaminated. Your mother could have me locked up in a pink rubber room for the rest of my life in revenge. Besides, I'm curious as to how you even know what _it_ looks like?"

Smiling mischievously, Stephania raised an eyebrow before heading for the door. "I'll go check out the half-bath now." She sauntered out of the kitchen. House smirked with uncertainty before returning his attention to the contents of the cabinets.

Bell entered Mr. and Mrs. Duncan's bedroom and surveyed her surroundings with a slow sweep, turning like a pivot. It was neat and tidy to look at, but if it was anything like the living and dining rooms the cleanliness was only on the surface where it was clean. It seemed they were more concerned about appearances than health and safety. Of course, Mrs. Duncan was recently diagnosed with cancer. Many of Bell's past patients had suffered from extreme fatigue which made cleaning and other household chores near insurmountable tasks for them. If her husband and children were less than helpful around the house then she likely would have only just enough energy to make certain that the bare minimum in her cleaning was done.

Sure enough, there were armies of dust bunnies under the furniture and in the corners and closets; under the bed she also found a bottle of lubricant, a condom wrapper, and a pair of soiled lace panties. Severely invading this family's privacy like this was killing her conscience but she saw the logic behind it. If the parents had been forewarned about this visit any woman with an ounce of pride would have come and done at least a little more cleaning and discarding, sick or not, and by so doing may have purposeful or accidentally discarded vital clues. That being said, she still felt like some kind of pervert-stalker looking for trophies and treasures to take home and obsess over.

After gathering samples from the bedroom proper, Bell went into the small walk-in closet. It was in the same condition as everywhere else but there was a slight odor in there that she couldn't quite place. It was extremely faint, burned the nose ever-so-slightly. Dry cleaning solution? Window cleaner? She looked for spots on the carpet and walls which could indicate mold or chemical spills of some kind but didn't see anything with the ceiling light on and her flashlight. Regardless, she took carpet fiber samples from random spots and swabbed the walls and baseboards to check for any residue, she also selected an inconspicuous spot behind the door near the baseboard to flake some paint off for analysis.

If the paint were lead-based then it was possible that Harry was suffering from heavy-metal poisoning. It seemed unlikely in a young man his age. Usually it was young children who were most affected from heavy-metal lead poisoning from paint because even slight amounts of lead could cause toxicity in their smaller bodies and developing nervous system and they were more likely to chew on painted surfaces like walls, painted tables or chairs, and doors, thus consuming the offending substance. Bell was taking paint samples from each room she searched, just in case.

There was no ensuite bathroom so Bell finished up quickly enough and moved on to the sister's bedroom next. Since the girl wasn't showing symptoms it seemed unlikely that there was anything environmental at work, particularly in her bedroom where she spent at least a third of her life, but Bell was a scientist and her training had taught her not to make assumptions if at all possible and to be very, very thorough.

She found nothing out of the ordinary except that the girl obviously cleaned her own room and did so quite thoroughly. It was cluttered and disorganized, not unlike the average adolescent's room, but underneath the out-of-place items it was clean. Only the very beginnings of dust bunnies could be found and her closet was tidier and better organized than Bell's. The room smelled like a spice cabinet mingled with a touch of Jasmine, the bedding a soft yellow against the brilliant lavender of one feature wall and a much lighter, more washed out lavender on the other three. It was very feminine and romantic; the bed was white along with the matching bedside table and chest of drawers. A whitewashed wooden vanity table and matching pillow-top stool completed the look. Bell turned suddenly when she heard a light knock. Stephania and House stood in the doorway and Stephania had been the one to knock on the door jam.

"You startled me!" the oncologist told them, taking a deep breath in an attempt to slow down her rapidly beating heart. "All done with the kitchen and bathrooms?"

"Yup," House told her with a nod. "Just our patient's room in the basement left to check out. We're scared of the dark so we were hoping you'd hold our hands while we did that."

Bell smirked and rolled her eyes. "I'm not quite finished in here yet. I'll be with you in a moment." She opened one of the drawers in the vanity table and froze. Using a pair of tweezers from her pocket she pulled something out to show the others. It was a pair of stiff, bloodied panties also smeared with fecal matter. The way they were stained it didn't look like the bleeding had been vaginal but, in fact, had been rectal.

"Wow," Stephania murmured, eyes widened.

House sighed. This was either a symptom of GI involvement in the girl, or something else entirely that House didn't want to think about much less discuss with Stephania in the room.

"Steph, take my bag of samples to the car and put them in the Styrofoam cooler in the trunk," he told her, passing her the bag.

"But Dr. House-!"

"Just do it!" he told her sharply, giving her a look that dared her to argue with him any further.

"How can I learn if you're going to hide stuff from me?" the teenager insisted, grabbing the bag from him angrily and marching out of the bedroom with it.

"The boy suffered severe, bloody diarrhea," House commented as Bell carefully bagged and labeled the underwear.

"So you think she's come down with whatever her brother has?" Bell asked quizzically. "But why would she hide her panties where she figured no one would find them? If you're sick, befouling your underwear is understandable, nothing to be afraid of recrimination for; besides, it's only a trace of feces. With diarrhea you would expect to find a lot more than that. No…no I think this is something else entirely."

"Explain."

"I hate to say it, but I suspect that this girl is being sodomized," Bell said bluntly, grim. "If she were then either shame or fear would understandably lead her to want to hide the evidence of the fact from the person doing the laundry since she didn't put them in the hamper or garbage. She did it in a hurry, too, because I can tell you as a woman that nobody would put dirty panties like these in the same drawer as her cosmetics if not panicking or hurrying. She must have had them in hand, perhaps having just changed out of them, when she was surprised by someone arriving at her room. In such a case, she would have stuck them in the closest hiding place near her regardless what might be in there. I'd start asking questions like crazy."

"That's CPS's and the cops' job,'" House told her, appearing disturbed in spite of his effort not to. "Ours is to diagnose her brother. I found a freezer storage bag containing which I'm positive is frozen semen."

"Wow," Bell murmured, shaking her head, "this just keeps weirder and sicker by the minute. Did your young protégé know what it was inside that bag?"

House gave her an uncertain smirk. "Yes. She scoffed when I questioned her how she knew that—which is not a problem for you but it does pose an inconvenience for me."

"Good luck," Bell told him, smiling.

Stephania, as if on cue, entered the room at that moment. "Is it okay for the kid to come in now?" she asked sarcastically. "Are you done talking about Harry's sister being raped so we can we check out the basement and get out of here?"

"Were you listening in to our conversation?" House demanded.

"Was Jeremiah a bullfrog?"

"You're too smart and devious for your own good," House snapped at her, frowning.

"So are you," Stephania retorted, smiling smugly, crossing her arms.

Bell repressed the smile that wanted to express itself. Before House could respond to that, she announced, "I think we're done here. Lead the way, Stephania."

"You might want to find some Vick's vapor-rub and stick it in your nostrils like they did in _Silence of the Lambs_," she told the doctors following her down the corridor. "It smells like a cesspool down there."

**(~*~)**

She was right; it did. Stink like a cesspool, that is. The entire basement stunk bad enough to turn House's stomach and cause him to feel as if he might vomit. The smell from down here hadn't made its way upstairs thanks to the solid doors at the top and bottom of the stairwell being shut securely. The basement was only partially finished at the far end; everywhere else it remained unfinished and apparently used as the utility/furnace/laundry room. After a quick investigation, House discovered the source of the stink. Behind the furnace and hot water tank was where the dog had been urinating and defecating in the house for apparently quite some time. House doubted that this was the only dump stop the dog had in the basement.

"This is _so gross_," Stephania said, gagging. "What kind of people _live_ like this?"

House reached into the sample kit he carried and handed Stephania swabs, several sterile wrapped tongue depressors and plastic containers and bags. "Gather samples," he commanded, turning to walk away.

"No way!" Stephania protested quickly. "Nuh-uh—I am _not _going near that. You gather samples!"

"Do you want to know what it's like to be a diagnostician on my team?" House asked her sternly.

"Yes, but…but _no_ science project is worth having to do _that_!" she retorted stubbornly.

"Then get out of science altogether," House told her, his blue eyes staring at Stephania like lasers boring through her. "_This_ is science, this is all part of medicine. It's not all sitting in a conference room staring at X-Rays, juggling symptoms, and debating in differentials. Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty and if you're not willing to do that then go get some useless arts degree instead." He walked away, not looking back at her but a few seconds later her saw her gathering samples and labeling them with an angry, revolted expression on her face.

"House," Bell called to him from where she stood next to some storage shelves. He limped over to her. She held up a couple of jars of home canning—in this case, home-made tomato sauce. She pointed to the arching of the sealer disk in the lid. "The seal has been breached. There are several other jars in here with the same thing, not all of them tomato sauce. Looks like Mrs. Duncan home cans all kinds of things, from vegetables and fruit to jams, salsas, pickles…" Bell reached deep into the shelf and pulled out a bulging half-pint jar labeled "salmon" that was over a year old; she handed it to her boss.

"Botulism," House murmured, processing as he rolled the jar between his hands.

"But he's exhibited no fever and his white cell count isn't above the normal range," Bell countered.

"Not when he was first tested," House told her thoughtfully. "His bacterial load may not have been high enough at that point but there would have been toxins already being released. If he's more sensitive to it than most..." With that thought in mind House pulled out his cell phone and called the hospital and spoke with Ferry. "Labs back yet?"

"Not yet," Ferry told him. "The main lab is swamped and until the one in diagnostics is completed and up and running—"

"I told you to run those tests yourself. Find Preston and then get down there and get those results back pronto," House interrupted, not interested in her excuses. "There's a possibility that he may have botulism that's progressing slower than usual."

"I'm on it," Ferry said crisply and hung up. House hung up as well and returned the phone to his pocket.

"The results aren't back yet," House told Bell in case she hadn't figured that out from hearing his end of the conversation.

"I got that," Bell acknowledged with a nod. House handed back the salmon to her to bag and then headed for the finished end of the basement where Harry's bedroom was located. She followed. House pushed the partially closed door and stopped in his tracks. The stench of musk, sweat, urine, spoiled food, stale marijuana smoke, and the bacterial and fungal metabolites of it all was like a solid barrier repelling him from room.

"Holy shit," House muttered beneath his breath, his eyes watering instantly.

"I can't believe a human being sleeps in here," Bell whispered, shaking her head and holding her nose.

"That's obviously not all he does in there," Stephania commented from behind them. "Where do we even begin in there? Everything should be bagged and taken to the dump."

House nodded grimly but entered the room nevertheless. "Start with the bedding."

Using large garbage bags they had brought with them, House, Bell, and Stephania began to gather up the bedding, some of which smelled strongly of urine, but whether it was human, canine, or both they had no idea. After the bedding they continued their gathering, including mouse droppings they found on Harry's closet shelf.

Once the bedroom was covered, they left the house, Bell insisting on leaving a note for the Duncan's explaining what they had done and why.

**(~*~)**

Back at the hospital the samples were taken to the lab to be tested. Stephania spent some time in the lab observing House's team as they took over the place from the hospital's usual lab techs to conduct their own. Around five o'clock House showed up at the lab to get some feedback from his team and pick up the teenager to take her home. He was also anxious to get back to his place to check on Clee and spend some time with him before returning to the hospital.

"Somebody should call CPS on these people," Preston told House. "Harry's too late but it's not too late to protect his sister. By the way," he held up the freezer bag House had taken from the Duncan's fridge freezer. "It's dog semen, not human. I had to call a veterinarian friend of mine to confirm. You noted that you found this in the freezer with their food?"

"Yup," House confirmed, smirking. "Yummy."

Ferry muttered something utter her breath but House caught enough to ask her to speak louder. Her face flushed and she was extremely reluctant to answer.

"I said, 'You should know'." Ferry avoided House's gaze.

"Not dog, I wouldn't," House responded quickly, smirking, but there was no humor in his eyes, which had darkened ominously to deep cobalt. "And as for human, what they say is true: what goes in affects the taste of what comes out. Haven't dated for a while, hey Ferry?"

She said nothing but gave him a glare before returning her attention to her microscope. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Preston broke it.

"Well, it's not botulism," he announced, and showed out the test results he was referring to. "There is some evidence of bacterial matter, however, so I'm continuing with the screening."

"I'm taking Stephania home," House told his team. "I'll be back after dinner. Finish in here then take your dinner break. We're going to be here late tonight; in the meantime, page me if anything significant comes from your work here."

The three subordinate doctors nodded and resumed their work. House handed Stephania one of the two helmets he carried in his left hand, his backpack slung over his shoulder. They made their way for the main lobby.

"I want to come back tonight, too," the teenager told him.

"No," House told her. "Your mother told me not to tax you too much. Besides, don't you have your therapy group tonight?"

"Yeah," Stephania answered, sounding disappointed. "I don't think it's going to do me any good. Sitting in a circle with seven other people talking about our traumatic experiences over and over again isn't going to change the fact that it happened to me. I'm still having nightmares and flashbacks and that's enough review of the attack; I really don't need to talk about it and relive it during therapy as well."

"Have you told your mother how you feel about group?"

"She's a psychiatrist," Stephania said, rolling her eyes. "What do you think she would say?"

"She was reasonable with me when I found that being an inpatient was causing me more harm than good. She went to bat for me with Nolan," House informed her. "Don't underestimate your mom."

Stephania didn't reply to that but House could tell that she was mulling over what he'd said. They walked in silence to House's parking stall where his motorcycle waited for them. Traffic cooperated with them and they arrived back at the acreage in less than half-an-hour. House stopped at Hutton's house to drop Stephania before heading to his place.

"Keep the helmet for tomorrow," House told her as she climbed off the bike. "Talk to your Mom."

Sighing, she nodded and then said, "If you figure out what's wrong with Harry before tomorrow morning, call me."

House hid a smirk at her enthusiasm. "I'll think about it."

When House parked his bike in the driveway of his home he could smell hickory smoke and grilling beef. A smile crossed his lips as he inhaled hungrily and followed the smell to the back deck. Standing in front of the BBQ was Clee, clad only in an apron and a smile, watching over the steaks he was preparing for the two of them.

"You realize I could have been someone else?" House asked him as he climbed the two steps up to the deck and approached his partner from behind. "Not that I'm complaining." He wrapped his arms around Clee's midriff and kissed his neck.

"I heard your bike," the surgeon told him with a smile, tilting his head to expose more of his neck to House's ministrations. "I stripped in the kitchen and threw on the apron."

"Mm," House hummed against his skin. "How much time before the steaks are ready?"

"Not enough for the appetizer you're looking for," Clee told him knowingly. "There is always dessert, however."

"It will have to be a quick dessert," House told him. "I have to return to the hospital later to go over the results of some lab work they're carrying out."

"That's too bad," Clee told him with a sigh. "I made strawberry shortcake and I thought you could help me with the whipped cream."

"Of course," House amended quickly, "there _is_ a new technological fad called Skype…."

Clee chuckled, setting his BBQ fork down and the turning in his partners arms to face him. "Back up a little, will you? Otherwise I'll end up with toasted buns."

Using Clee for support, House managed to move back a couple of steps; backing up was a lot harder than it looked for someone with his disability.

"I'm surprised you don't have a hot dog by now."

"The apron helped," Clee responded, wrapping his arms around House's neck, "but _you're_ not." They pressed their bodies together and kissed tenderly. House's hands went to Clee's waist where he began to untie the apron and then to his neck where they lifted the neck strap over his head and tossed the garment to the side. Those hands then shot like heat-seeking missiles to the younger man's ass.

"I _told_ you, there's not enough time for that."

"You started it," House accused, grinning. "How can you expect me to resist you when you wander around naked acting all domestic on me?"

"Barbequing isn't domestic, Greg; it's man's work."

"Whatever—just kiss me."

As soon as the steaks were ready they moved inside to eat. After the main course there really was strawberry shortcake for dessert, but House noticed the extra can of whipped cream in the fridge when he went to grab a soda and smiled fondly. He would just have to solve the mystery of Harry Duncan's illness quickly so he could hurry home and he and his partner could put that whipped cream to _very _good use.

House got up before Clee could and began to clear the dishes. The surgeon was supposed to be taking it easy these days and considering how close he came to losing him House wasn't about to allow Clee to overdo things. While he detested cleaning and especially doing the dishes, his lover was worth it. He couldn't get over how much he'd come to love and depend upon Clee. At one point in his life House had believed that he couldn't love anyone as much as he had Wilson, but he was actually relieved to know that he was wrong. There _was_ life after his former best friend and it was pretty damned good.

Clee simply couldn't sit around and do nothing, however, so while House made quick work of the dishes, he got out an acoustic guitar and sat on a stool at the island and began to play around on the instrument. He wasn't as good a guitarist as House, but he wasn't bad either. His voice, however, was incredible and it sent shivers down House's spine when Clee began to sing The Who's "Behind Blue Eyes".

"_No one knows what it's like  
To be the bad man  
To be the sad man  
Behind blue eye_s…

"_No one knows what it's like  
To be hated  
To be fated  
To telling only lies_

"But my dreams  
They aren't as empty  
As my conscience seems to be

"I have hours, only lonely  
My love is vengeance  
That's never free…"

"Any reason why you're singing that particular song?" House asked him pointedly. Early in his and Wilson's friendship Wilson had commented that this song reminded him of House. At the time House had laughed it off, calling Wilson an idiot. Later, however, when alone, House had realized how true that was, and it had stuck with him ever since.

Clee stopped playing, looking pensive. He shrugged wistfully. "I was thinking today of all the reasons why I love you—and I ran out of time because there were so many. Then I got to thinking about some of the accounts you told me about your life, the pain and shit you've had to endure and how you saw yourself during all of that and it made me both angry and sad. You told me that Wilson said this song reminded him of you…but that's not the Greg House I got to know and fall in love with.

"You were mistreated for so long that you might have become the man in the song for a while, but when you were given a second chance and a new start that pitiable monster was left behind with people who never gave you a chance to shine like you do now. I'm so…so lucky to know you, Greg, and to be loved by you is more than I could've possibly hoped for…" Clee's voice broke and he stopped speaking. House had been wiping out the sink at the time and dropped the cloth, hobbling to the younger man without bothering to grab his cane. He tilted Clee's head to take a better look at him, and saw blue-green eyes staring back at him, tearing and frightened.

"What happened today while I was gone?" House demanded, concerned. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was very wrong. "Are you feeling alright?"

Clee nodded, but a tear escaped one of his eyes and rolled down his face. "Yeah, I feel fine, Greg. Sure, I'm a little tired… I guess…I'm not sure why, I just feel…melancholy today. I'm sorry."

House scrutinized his partner carefully, not fully convinced he was telling the whole truth, but didn't want to accuse him of lying, either. He knew that sometimes, following a major illness or injury, patients were more prone to depression than usual. Perhaps that was all it was…perhaps.

"I'm the lucky one," House assured him, kissing the top of his head before gently taking the guitar from him and returning it to its stand. House returned to Clee, offering his hand to him. Clee smiled sadly and grasped it, rising from stool.

Limping, House silently led his lover to the bedroom; the surgeon followed without argument. Gently he pushed Clee down onto the bed and began to kiss various parts of his body that were normally covered by his clothing, even parts that were not traditionally sexual or erotic. The kisses were more tender and comforting than sexual, though there was that component as well.

"Greg," Clee said softly, his eyes drooping sleepily, "you have to be getting back to the hos-!"

"Shut up," House told him. "Right now I want hold you for a while until you fall asleep. Later, if you're up to it, we'll explore dessert."

So he did that, stripping down as well and crawling under the light blanket with Clee, pulling him close and cuddling him. House didn't attempt to comfort his lover with words, which he was not good at; he simply held him close, skin against skin, caressing Clee in non-sexual areas, kissing his face with small, gentle kisses, running his fingers through short blond hair.

"I love you," House whispered, his lips brushing Clee's temple as he spoke.

"I know," Clee murmured sleepily before drifting off, tired out by cooking dinner. His color was improving, but Clee's skin was still too white, almost translucent.

House continued to hold him close protectively for a few minutes more before carefully extracting himself from the arms of his sleeping lover and climbing out of bed. His breath caught from a quick jolt of pain from his leg as he set his right foot down on the floor, but it passed and his discomfort returned to the two where it had been sitting for a while now. Dr. VanLuten suggested she could try a few little changes in his pain management regimen to see if she could reduce his pain level even further, but even if it didn't work, House didn't care. His pain was at the lowest it had been since the infarction, was consistent, and rarely impeded him from doing what he wanted or needed to do. If it remained this way for good, he could easily live with it after the kind of pain he'd suffered in the past for too many years.

He dressed quickly, made certain everything was turned off in the kitchen and on the deck, then left for the hospital again, making certain that the security system was at the setting it should be and the door was locked securely before he did.

House was riding down the lane toward the gate when he saw Stephania come running from her house to intercept him. House stopped his bike and waited for her to reach him. He removed his helmet so he could hear her properly.

"What's the matter?" House asked her, frowning.

"Nothing," Stephania answered, panting lightly. "I think I know what's wrong with Harry!"

His first reaction was to scoff but then he stopped himself. Stephania was much smarter than he'd thought, and she had intuition, something the members of his team seemed to lack. "Go on," House told her.

"I called the hospital and talked to Dr. Bell. She told me that she was just about to page you, that Harry has just come down with a fever and it's spiking, one hundred and five point one. Also, he's been complaining about feeling nauseated and his tongue is jaundiced. So I hit the books, so to speak, and I think he may have _leptospirosis_! I couldn't get over how quiet his Yorkshire terrier was, remember? They are usually overflowing with energy and very yappy. It occurred to me over dinner that maybe his dog is sick. Harry sleeps in a basement soaked with dog urine, an assured mode of transmission if Harry even touched anything soiled with his hand and then touched his hand to his food or his nose or eyes without washing first; that and his symptoms fit."

House threw his helmet to her. "Hop on," he told the teen. "No time to grab the extra lid."

A grin spread across Stephania's face, lighting it up. She pulled the helmet over her head and adjusted the chin strap.

As she climbed onto the bike behind him, House said to her. "If you're right, nobody finds out you're the one who came up with the diagnosis unless I tell them; I have a reputation to maintain. Text Ferry and tell her to look for leptospira and that we're on our way."

The motorcycle kicked up gravel as they sped away.


	60. Chapter 60 Part 3 Ch 26

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Monday, July 26, 2010; 8:43 P.M.**

It was, indeed, human leptospirosis and treatment—starting Harry on a generous dose of amoxicillin—was begun. Harry's parents and sister were thrilled that they finally had a diagnosis but that quickly ended when the police and a worker from CPS showed up at St. Luke's to assume state custody of Serena, Harry's little sister, and to question the Duncan's about what had been discovered by House, Bell and Stephania earlier in the day. The Duncan's put up a loud, verbal protest as they were escorted away by the police. Before the CPS worker took Serena with her, the girl sat alone on a bench in the corridor outside her brothers ICU cubicle. She was waiting for the worker to finish talking on the phone at the nursing station about six feet away.

"Time to head back," House said to Stephania, who couldn't tear her eyes away from Serena. The fourteen year old was neither crying nor apparently relieved by the actions of CPS. Instead she sat staring into the middle space blankly as if she were frozen that way.

"Yeah, in a minute," Stephania told him. She walked over to the bench, facing Serena. "May I sit down?"

When the other teen didn't answer Stephania sat slowly on the bench beside her, keeping a comfortable distance between them.

"You okay?" Stephania asked her. For some reason it was irritating her that Serena was so…well, so _serene_.

Serena shrugged one shoulder as her response, not looking at Stephania.

"Are you the least bit surprised at what happened?" Stephania demanded, frowning. "The police hauled your parents away for allowing you and Harry to live in abject filth and all you can do is sit there like a zombie?"

Serena finally acknowledged her, blinking blankly before responding. "It won't last."

Stephania frowned. "What do you mean?"

Looking away again, Serena answered, her voice monotone, "The CPS has taken Harry and I away from them three times before, starting when I was five. My parents clean up the house before the inspector comes, put on smiley, happy faces, and CPS hands us back. Then they put the house up for sale and we move; then it starts up again. Harry's lucky he's eighteen; he doesn't _have_ to go back anymore."

Stephania stared at her, stunned. Serena glanced at her and smirked bitterly at her reaction. "There are thousands of cracks in the system; my family is just one of them."

Both girls were silent for a moment or two before Stephania spoke again. "What if you told them about your dad…hurting you?"

Looking at her quickly, eyes wide with horror, Serena hissed quietly, "How do you know—?"

"It's…not important how," the older girl answered, hedging a bit. "I just know. They won't send you back there if you tell them about that."

A tear slipped down Selena's face and she shook her head. "I can't. He'll go to jail!"

"That's where he belongs," Stephania responded, baffled by her reaction. "He can't hurt you anymore once he's behind bars. The guy who…who tried to r-rape me is going to trial in t-two months. I have to testify, but after that…he can't hurt me anymore."

Serena appraised her for a moment. "He can once he gets out," Serena told her, wiping the tear off her cheek and looking down at her feet. "My dad would. That's assuming he'd be found guilty. He may not." She shook her head. "I can't. I just…can't."

From somewhere deep inside her a rage burst forth that Stephania didn't understand and couldn't control. She rose to her feet, her fists pumping, her breathing fast and shallow and tears of frustration stinging her eyes.

"Of course you can!" she yelled at Serena. Every head in the area jerked up or around to stare at the girls in surprise—all except House's; he'd been watching them from a distance the entire time. Stephania didn't notice. "You're just too chicken! Stop being a coward and tell them and they'll protect you! What, you want it to happen again? Maybe you _like_ it! If you don't then open your fucking mouth and make it stop!"

Immediately a nurse and the CPS agent descended upon them, but House had already been limping quickly toward the girls and got there first.

"Let's go," he said quietly but forcefully to Stephania, grabbing her arm and pulling her away from Serena. Stephania fought him, her entire body trembling with emotion but even with a bum leg House was easily able to pull her away from the now crying Serena, who was being comforted.

"Stop it—let go!" Stephania shouted at him, struggling, tears now streaming down her face as well. House ignored her, remaining silent and resolute. He pulled her into the men's room, making a quick sweep with his eyes that it was empty first. He stood between her and the door, blue eyes piercing hers, searching her. She continued to struggle.

"Enough!" he snapped at her sharply enough to stun her into stillness and silence. Before he could say anything more to her the dam breached and Stephania began to sob uncontrollably, throwing herself against him and nearly knocking him off-balance. He stiffened in surprise and at the sudden contact but forced himself to relax. She had snaked her arms around his torso and held on tight, crying into his chest.

As usual, he felt more than uncomfortable, not knowing what to do. He hated displays of emotion like this because he was never certain what the appropriate response was; it was especially worse when it was a young girl or adolescent clinging to him, seeking comfort. He thought about what Wilson would do, Wilson the compassionate bleeding heart.

Slowly, House dropped his cane and wrapped his arms around her, hugging her stiffly. If Stephania noticed his uncertainty, she didn't show it. He sighed, feeling bad for the kid. She'd suffered enough emotional trauma to last her a lifetime and in relative terms hers had only just begun. She was a good kid, brilliant (not that he would ever tell her that directly), talented, and much kinder than she'd appeared just a few moments ago around Serena. He had actually enjoyed mentoring her over the past few weeks, something he'd never expected to happen.

When her sobbing weakened to the odd hiccup he let go of her. She released her bear hug on him, backed away a couple of steps, and dried her tears with her hands. Embarrassment and tears had tinted her cheeks bright pink.

"I'm…I'm sorry, Dr. House," she said softly. "I don't know why I did that."

House sighed audibly. He had a pretty good idea why.

"I guess I should go apologize now?"

House shook his head. "No. Not now. Let Sarah be."

"Her name is Serena," Stephania corrected.

"Sarah, Serena, who cares?" House retorted. "Let's get out of here and go home before someone accuses _me_ of being a pervert."

Once they were in the parking lot Stephania asked him, "You're going to tell my mom about this, aren't you?"

"Nope," House replied. They reached his bike; he handed her his helmet. "_You_ are. I'm just going to sit there drinking your mother's coffee while you do."

**(~*~)**

House sat quietly on the loveseat in Hutton's living room, his feet up on an ottoman, holding a large red coffee mug. Clee sat close next to him, clasping the hand not holding the mug. Also present was Hutton and Stephania, seated at opposite ends of the overstuffed sofa. The tension in the room was nearly tangible. It was Hutton who broke it, regarding her daughter with a soft but concerned gaze.

"Tell me what it is House says you need to tell me." Her voice was quiet, composed, and almost clinical. House knew she was protecting herself by switching between mother-mode and therapist-mode but he wondered if that was the right approach when dealing with her daughter. He kept that thought to himself.

"There was something that happened at the hospital today," Stephania answered quietly, picking at an invisible loose thread on her capris. "I kinda lost it with someone and caused a scene. Dr. House had to drag me into the men's room to keep me from making a complete ass of myself."

Clee looked at House, raising an amused eyebrow. "The men's room?" he murmured.

"Well I wasn't going to go into the ladies," House whispered in his own defense. "There was no one in there at the time."

Both men were silenced when Hutton cast them an annoyed glare and then returned her attention to her daughter.

"I want the whole story in a nutshell," Hutton said with a sigh.

Reluctantly Stephania described to her mother her day at St. Luke's—and the Duncans' house—as part of House's team. She was stopped at the part where she described how she had helped House and Bell break into the patient's family's home.

"You broke into someone's house?" Hutton echoed incredulously and then turned to give House the evil eye. That's _illegal_."

"Only if you get caught," House informed her. Clee shook his head and sighed.

"Greg, I'd be quiet if I were you," the surgeon told his partner. "Liv bites."

"Not funny," Hutton said in response to that, turning her glare on Clee, who was obviously trying hard to hide a mischievous smile. "I'll deal with you two later."

"Hey," Clee responded, holding both hands up, "Don't look at me. I was at the house sleeping like a good boy when this took place."

"Thanks for your support," House grumbled softly. Clee leaned over to kiss his cheek, knowing that it would only serve to irritate House just then—and that was the point. House waved him away as if he were a mosquito buzzing around his head.

"Go on, Stephania," Hutton said with a longsuffering sigh. Stephania did, describing what all they found at the Duncan house and the stained panties that suggested that Serena, the patient's younger sister, was being sexually abused. She went on to describe to her mother her coming up with the diagnosis, what had happened at the hospital with the Duncan parents and then her verbal attack on Serena. House was generally impressed with the kid's honesty concerning what had happened—in fact, she had been a little too honest which was going to end up getting him into hot water the moment Stephania was sent from the room and off to bed.

"Dr. House decided it wasn't an appropriate time to apologize to Serena," Stephania explained to her mother.

"I think he was right," Hutton agreed with a nod. "Everybody was too upset at that point. Honey, can you tell me what was going on inside you when you blew up like that?"

The teen shook her head, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "I don't know. I just got really…angry. Serena was abused and raped and she didn't seem to care—it pissed me off because I felt like her attitude was that it wasn't a big deal and it is a big deal! It's not safe for women in this world with all these perverts everywhere! Men think they own us, that they see a great pair of tits or a nice ass and they have the right to take it whether the girl or woman wants it or not! Serena's attitude does nothing to make it stop!" Stephania was near tears and yelling again. Her breathing was becoming rapid and shallow—it had panic attack written all over it. "When is it ever going to stop?"

"Stephie," Clee spoke up, leaning forward in his seat, "not all men are like that. Serena was probably in shock and that's why she was acting indifferent, not because she didn't care."

"Uncle Justin," Stephania said, tears now flowing, "I know that you wouldn't rape a woman but that's because—"

"Because I'm gay?" he cut her off gently. "Honey, rape has more to do about violence, power, and control than it does sex. Not just women are raped, either. And you're right, I wouldn't rape anyone—and neither would Greg—but not because of our sexual preferences. We just know that that is a horrible thing to do to _anyone_, woman or man, girl or boy. Whether a person is straight, bi, gay or lesbian, the truth is rapists and molesters are sick, angry, power-hungry cowards who attack the vulnerable to fill some twisted, distorted need they think they have. Am I right, Liv?"

Hutton nodded. "Yes. You're also right about Serena being in shock. Everybody deals with trauma like sexual abuse and rape differently, but being withdrawn and seemingly indifferent is very common. It's likely Serena's way of protecting herself from the full impact of the violence and terrorism inflicted upon her by someone she's supposed to be able to trust to protect her from that kind of harm.

"Oh, baby! I understand how hard this must be for you—"

"No!" Stephania told her, shaking her head. "You can't! None of you can because it's never happened to you before!" She rose to her feet. "You have no clue—and if you think forcing me to go to group and talk about something this embarrassing and disgusting and painful is helping—it's not! I don't want to talk about it, I don't want to think about it, and I especially don't want to have to sit in a courtroom full of people and be interrogated about it while the pervert who tried to rape me sits there staring at me the whole time. I just want it all to go the hell away!"

She ran from the room, out the front door and into the night. Clee made to get up to go after her but House stayed him by keeping a firm hold on his hand.

"Give her some space," he told the surgeon quietly. "Go try to find her now and she'll lash out. She needs to be alone to think."

"I'm not certain I agree with you," Hutton told House, frowning, obviously upset. She rose from her seat as well. "She needs to know that I do understand, that…I've been there and then some. You knew that she was unhappy with Group, didn't you? Why didn't you tell me?"

House exhaled loudly. "It wasn't my place. I told her she had to tell you, I encouraged her to do so. She half-way trusts me; if I squeal on her to you every time she tells me something she won't trust me with anything for long. She didn't want me to tell you about what happened today so I didn't—but I told her she would and I'd be there for her, which I have been."

"I'm her mother!" Hutton insisted, frustrated. "I need to know what's going on in her head!"

"Then ask her!" House snapped back. "Besides, you don't need to know everything that goes on in her head—they're _her _thoughts and feelings and if you try to force her to tell you everything she'll end up telling you _nothing_. That's her type—trust me, I know it well; it drove my mother insane dealing with me at her age. Stop being her shrink and be her mom! That's what _she_ needs right now."

"And what makes you the sudden expert?" Hutton demanded.

"The fact that I'm _not_ one and I don't pretend to be is why she talks to me about things she won't with you," House told her bluntly, not caring to spare her feelings by wrapping the message up in tissue paper and a bow.

Hutton stared at him for a long moment, apparently trying to decide whether or not he might have a point. Shaking her head in frustration she stormed out of the house in search of Stephania. House sighed silently, and it was quiet between Clee and him for a while.

"I suppose you think I've done the wrong thing, too?" House finally asked his lover, expecting lecture on how irresponsible he'd been concerning Stephania.

"No," Clee told him simply, shaking his head and squeezing House's hand. "I don't."

House realized that he was expecting a lecture because for years he'd been the recipient of many of them from another man to whom he'd been close; but Justin Clee wasn't James Wilson. Justin believed in him, respected him, and tried to understand him when he did seemingly stupid or unexplainable things. It was a fundamental difference that meant everything to House and was a big reason why he was with the surgeon at that moment, and not Wilson. Each day House was reminded by situations like these how he'd made the right choice.

"Let's go home," Clee told him, getting up and pulling House up, refusing to let go of his hand. "Liv and Steph will work this out. Besides, we still haven't had dessert, remember?"

**Saturday, July 31, 2010; 9:30 A.M.**

The hall was bustling with activity as science campers and their families and friends milled around the various booths that held displays of each contributor's research projects for view by the general public. The night before at Penn State each project had been presented to the judges for evaluation, but the results had been kept under wraps. They were to be announced that afternoon, including the first, second and third prize winners. First prize came with a $10000 dollar scholarship, second, $5000, and third, $1000. Five finalists would be drawn and the two that came in fourth and fifth would receive $200 cash prizes.

House hadn't been able to attend in the morning, but had said that he would make it for the afternoon and was true to his word; his newest patient had been stabilized for the time being. Despite a confrontation with his patient's unfaithful wife (she'd taken a swing at him with her purse, connected just right and given House a bloody nose) and consequent meeting with Roth and the head of hospital security, had even had time to head home, shower and pick up Clee before arriving a little ahead of schedule. Also present in support of Stephania were her mother, David, Anderson, Gary and Linda Bonnar, Chase, and Bell, along with a handful of Stephania's friends from school and the community.

The five finalists were announced at one o'clock and Stephania was one of them. That had been no surprise to House, who would have knocked a little cane-sense into the so-called judge-experts if she hadn't been. She deserved first prize, and he would have believed that if he hadn't been her mentor for her project.

Each finalist would be given fifteen minutes to give their formal presentations a final time to the judges and public at large before the judges convened for fifteen minutes to make their final decisions which would then be announced from the main podium and the awards presented accordingly. The order of the presentations was done by random draw. Stephania was drawn to be last.

"Good," House told her as he looked over the competition with a disparaging eye. "You can mop up the floor with the rest of them."

"It's supposed to be about the learning," Hutton told House with an amused gleam in her eyes, "not a cutthroat battle."

"It's a competition," House corrected her. "The point of competing in a competition is to win."

"No pressure," Stephania muttered as she nervously reviewed her notes. They were waiting for the first of the five presenters to get their audio working properly.

"Of course not," House told her. "Have you seen your competitor's projects? Winning this will be a piece of cake."

Clee grinned, shaking his head. "Calm down, House. Retract your claws—this competition is for fun."

"No such thing," House told his lover. "There's a ten thousand dollar scholarship on the line, not to mention my reputation as the best project mentor ever."

"Oh, brother!" Stephania said, blowing her half-bangs out of her eyes. "Being around you is making me nervous. I'm going to go buy a soda."

"Good idea," House agreed. "The first four presentations are going to be boring anyway. Make mine grape."

She held out her hand for money from him but House simply stared at it, pretending to have no idea what Stephania was waiting for. Clee rolled his eyes, pulled out his wallet and pulled out a ten note. "Bring me a Coke and get yourself what you want. _If_ there's enough left _then_ bring Greg his grape soda."

"I love the way you take care of me," House quipped sarcastically as Stephania took the money with a thanks and then wove her way through the crowd heading for the concession stand.

"Admit it," Justin Clee said into House's ear before kissing it quickly, "you're having fun."

"Sh-yeah, like I would admit to _that_," House retorted, repressing a smile on his mouth but his blue eyes betraying him. "She's worked hard and deserves to rewarded appropriately."

"You're proud of her," Clee told him, not waiting for his partner to confess. "It's very sexy, you know."

"Now who needs to calm down?" House asked, returning Clee's look with interested eyes.

"Can't help myself when I'm around you."

"You just like having sex in public places," House murmured, now allowing himself a small smile.

"Guilty as charged," Clee responded. "Come on, admit it—just about being caught by those two old crones at the university arboretum was _hot_."

"Usually I love how kinky you are," House told him, "but being caught by two ancient hags was _not_ hot. Being caught by two young, beautiful bisexual women, on the other hand…."

"Is that all you two talk about—sex?" Linda Bonnar asked them as she and Gary approached.

"Nah," House retorted, "sometimes we like to have it, too."

"Too much information," Gary told them with a shake of his head. "How are you feeling Justin?"

"Much better," the surgeon admitted, snaking an arm around House's waist. "A little stronger every day. I'm actually looking forward to getting back to work soon."

"Three weeks," House reminded him with a stern undertone. "We've talked about this.'

"Don't push yourself," Linda told Clee, smirking at House's protectiveness. "Give yourself all the time you need to recover."

House noticed the way that Gary kept his arm protectively around his wife's waist, as if steadying her and twice already they had moved out of the hall into the corridor where there were benches to sit and rest on. She was more than tired—she was fatigued, and that fatigue, as well as pain, would only get worse. Some people lived nearly normal lifetimes with MS; the more unfortunate sufferers could go downhill very quickly, and it wasn't pretty.

Every so often a muscle controlling movement of her left eyebrow would spasm and twitch, and correspondingly she would grimace slightly, likely with associated pain. Earlier he'd seen her nearly choke on a yogurt cup bought at the concession; soon she would choke on almost anything she tried to eat or drink, muscle spasms would take over, pain would rack her body as the inflammation took over, myelin was destroyed and nerve signals misfired, over-fired or failed to be transmitted at all. Eventually she would be unable to talk, her sight might go, her mode of transport would be the wheelchair until she finally ended up bedridden. Her breathing would become increasingly impaired until Bonnar was dependent upon a respirator. It would then be up to Gary to decide if he would respect any personal directive she had or act on his best understanding of what Linda would want—to pull life support, attempt resuscitation when the time finally came, or to let her go.

Subconsciously House reached over and grabbed Clee's hand; usually any physical contact in public was initiated by Clee, though House hadn't yet ever objected or drawn away from him. It was unusual enough to earn House a curious look from his partner, which went unnoticed. The Bonnars moved on to speak with other people they knew. House watched them walk away; he wasn't a romantic; excessive sentimentality usually either annoyed or nauseated him, but even he could see how much the burly truck driver loved his dying wife, and it affected him.

"Greg?" Clee said softly, curiosity becoming concern. "Hey, Greg—Babe?"

House realized that Clee was trying to get his attention after he'd called him 'Babe' and looked at him distractedly.

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?" Clee murmured. "You're as pale as a ghost. Are you feeling alright?"

"Yes," House said, looking at him with serious blue eyes that looked at Clee like he was just seeing him completely for the first time. "But you're _not_. Something is wrong with you and you haven't told me what."

"Greg—."

"Are you sick?"House demanded quietly, his eyes intense.

"We'll talk about this later," Clee deferred, nodding in the direction of Stephania returning with their sodas. "She needs you now, Dr. House, mentor extraordinaire."

"What's wrong?" House insisted, not willing to be dismissed. "If Gary and I are going to end up in the same club, I want to know now."

"Uncle Justin? Dr House?" Stephania said to him as she came to stand next to them. "I have your sodas…are you guys okay?"

Neither man broke their gazes at each other to look at her but after a moment House said, "Justin has agreed to be your patient needing diagnosis for your final presentation. He won't tell you ahead of time what's wrong with him, so you'll really have to be on your toes—but if you get stuck I'll jump in."

"O-kaaay," the teen said slowly, "if you think that's a good idea."

Clee closed his eyes briefly and then opened them again to glare at his partner.

House knew he was putting Clee in a bad position, but if this was the only way he could get the truth out of him, he'd risk Clee's anger.

"Thank you, Uncle Justin," Stephania told him, holding his Coke out to him. He finally broke the eye lock on House to look at her. He nodded and took the soda with a simple thank you. House took his with a nod. Stephania looked at them quizzically as she headed to her booth to make certain that everything was functioning properly and she was ready to go.

"That's not fair, Greg," Clee told him, frowning angrily. "You shouldn't have involved her in this."

"Tell me what's wrong and I will end her involvement."

"_Please_—later!"

The presentations were about to begin. House didn't answer Clee. He simply limped away from him, heading to Stephania's booth to help her prepare her apparatus and displays. Occasionally he glanced over to Clee to make certain he was still there and hadn't left the hall. He was relatively certain that now that Clee knew Stephania was counting on him he wouldn't just up and leave her in the lurch. Yes, House was playing dirty pool, but he was certain there was a secret his lover was keeping from him; his recent clinginess, sentimentality and weepiness were solid indicators. If it took running a differential and history on him to learn what was going on, he would do it and face the consequences later.

Clee stood exactly where House had left him, looking like he was afraid to do anything, like he was trying to desperately to come up what to do next. It was almost painful watching him.

The first four presentations were made and evaluated privately after each. When Stephania's turn arrived she turned to House and nodded. He gave her a smirk and nodded. The other presentations had been juvenile drivel; there was no doubt in his mind that Stephania was going to sweep them all away. Justin Clee had eventually wandered over to the booth and now became the center of Stephania's attention.

"Ready?" she asked him. He looked at her long and hard for a moment, then nodded, gave her a small smile and thumbs up. She grinned and went to stand in front of her display as the judges and the crowd descended upon her.

Stephania gave them an introduction to her project, what it was about and how she was going to use the skills she'd been learning to help diagnose someone.

"Before I begin, I'd like to introduce my mentor for this project, Dr. Gregory House," Stephania said, looking gesturing to him and smiling. "Dr. House is head the new department of Diagnostic Medicine at St. Luke's Presbyterian Hospital. He is a world-renowned diagnostician, sought out by doctors and patients from around the world for his help in diagnosing illnesses that elude explanation by other doctors. He has specializations in the fields of infectious diseases and nephrology, though he keeps himself well versed in a variety of fields.

"Dr. House allowed me to join his team for a day to observe them as they worked to diagnose a real-life patient and I was honored to be actively involved in the eventual diagnosis of this patient, who is now on the road to recovery. What I am about to demonstrate is an example of some of the things a diagnostician does in the process of assessing a patient and solving the puzzle of their illness.

"For this demonstration, Dr. Justin Clee, an accomplished vascular surgeon also employed at St. Luke's, has agreed to serve as the patient. He has an illness in mind that I do not know, and I will explain and demonstrate the process of taking a patient history and with that information and the symptoms being presented, run a differential diagnosis, hopefully in the time allowed. Sometimes it takes days or weeks to properly diagnose an illness, so this is meant only as an example of some of the things a diagnostician would ask or do in the process of his or her work. Dr. Clee?"

House looked at his partner carefully. Clee appeared to purposely refuse to look at House, and made his way slowly but surely up to the booth. A table draped with a sheet would serve as an exam bench, along with a couple of plastic drawer towers to hold supplies, Stephania's laptop and laptop table and a flatscreen TV connected to the laptop. Clee climbed up onto the table and sat.

"Dr. Clee, we're assuming you came here to see a diagnosis for an ailment that had been interfering with your health and well-being," Stephania told him. "I would like to take a brief medical history from you and also have you tell me about any and all symptoms you've been suffering that have brought you to seek medical attention."

Clee smiled, if a bit stiffly, at her, then glared quickly at House before speaking. "Go ahead."

Stephania quickly quizzed him on his medical history that was really uneventful barring having the measles and mumps as a child.

"So what brings you here today?" Stephania asked him as if she were an old pro at this. Clee smiled at her and winked at her with the eye that their audience couldn't see.

He swallowed visibly. "It started with the headaches about three months ago. They would come and go but the frequency of them has only increased over time. I'm pale most of the time, fatigued all of the time, and at times my heart races really quickly."

"What else?" Stephania asked as she typed the symptoms into her laptop and they appeared on the TV screen beside her.

"I've been bruising very easily, and when I do the bruises are massive and dark, purplish-blue."

House stared at Clee, frowning in confusion. The first set of symptoms he described could be attributed to his healing from the bullet wound and surgery, but the bruising House hadn't noticed at all, and he always paid very close attention to every part of Clee's body as often as his partner would let him. Something was wrong with this.

"Have you noticed any kind of rashes, particularly those which are small and purplish?" Stephania went on.

"Occasionally."

She typed into the laptop _petechiae/purpura. _"Anything else?"

"My gums have been bleeding regularly, sometimes quite a lot," Clee continued. "Lately, associated with the headaches I'm nauseated most of the time and as a result I've been vomiting at least twice a day for the past three weeks. Also, I've begun to lose bladder control, particularly at night, when I'm sleeping."

It was obvious to House now that Clee was leading them all on a wild goose chase, not talking about himself at all. House had known that he might try this and it only served to infuriate him. What the hell was he hiding? House looked over the list on the screen, and something began to click.

"From here," Stephania explained, "a list of possible ailments presenting with most or all of these symptoms would be made. That is called performing differential diagnoses. From this list it would be necessary to run a series of various diagnostic tests, the results of which would be used in eliminating ailments on the list until the correct one is left. It often isn't as simple as it sounds…"

She continued on with a list of possible ailments as well as some of the possible tests that could be performed. House was focused on the screen, piecing things together. He limped over to the booth and whispered into Stephania's ear. She nodded. House then stepped back into the crowd.

"Dr. Clee, for the sake of time, could you list what tests would have to be performed to determine the ailment you are presenting?" Stephania asked him.

Clee swallowed hard again, his Adam's apple bobbing. "After a general physical examination where the bruising and rash would be noted, blood work would be done, including a complete blood cell count and differential and blood smears. My white blood cell count would be significantly elevated, particular in the number of white blood cells called leukocytes; these leukocytes might be abnormal or immature and unable to properly do their job in the body. My red blood cell count and thrombocyte, or platelet cell counts would be low. Red blood cells contain a molecule called hemoglobin which easily bonds with oxygen which they take to the cells of the body to keep them alive and functioning. Platelets help in the process of blood clotting. When you get a cut on your hand and after a while the bleeding stops, it's because of the clumping action of the platelet cells which eventually form what is known as a scab.

"Blood chemistries would be examined and would find my serum uric acid and lactic dehydrogenase levels elevated due to my body creating excessive leukocytes and the destruction of red blood cells called erythrocytes, and thrombocytes. The serum calcium would be depressed and there would be the presence of elevated lactic acid levels, known as lactic acidosis."

House's eyes opened widely; he knew what was going, what ailment Clee was presenting. If he was right, this wasn't some fictional patient with this illness.

"Acute myeloid leukemia," House said loudly, interrupting Stephania and Clee. Both of them looked at House; Stephania was surprised that he'd jumped in so soon; Clee met House's gaze and nodded slightly in acknowledgement.

"Yes," the surgeon said simply.

"Pediatric presentation?" House continued, the attention of the entire crowd, including the judges, on him.

Clee simply nodded, his eyes misting over. Hutton and Anderson exchanged looks, as did Bonnar and Hutton. They were beginning to catch on as well, their expressions turning to those of concern.

"Finish up, Steph," House told her. You're doing very well."

At first Stephania paused, uncertain of what exactly was going on, and where she had left off. House, noticing this, said to her, "You were about to explain how these diagnostic tests helped eliminate the wrong diagnoses listed during the differential and how by process of elimination, the true diagnosis was determined."

"Right," Stephania said with a nod, and proceeded to do just as House said. She soon wrapped the presentation up; she finished to applause and people asking her numerous questions. House left her to field the questions while the judges were meeting to make their decisions. He gestured with his head toward the exit. Clee nodded, stepping out of the way and joining House in the corridor. They found a quiet corner and sat down on a bench.

"Jenny." House said softly; it wasn't a question.

"Yes," Clee admitted. "I only found out about a week ago. Her mother said she'd been so preoccupied with their move and the shock of the diagnosis that she forgot to tell me sooner."

"Forgot?" House echoed, angry. "How the hell does someone forget about something like leukemia?"

Clee said nothing. He was swallowing hard, locking his jaw, all in an effort to keep himself from breaking down and crying his heart out.

"Why the hell didn't you want to tell me?" House demanded, but his voice was quiet, gentle. "Why were you keeping it a secret from me?"

Shrugging, Clee sighed and replied, "I…I just didn't think—."

"You didn't think I'd care?"

Clee met his eyes again, briefly, before looking away again. He nodded, then quickly explained, "It's okay. I mean, you barely know her. With everything that's happened…well, I haven't had a chance to properly introduce the two of you."

"I may not know her," House murmured, placing his hand under Clee's chin and lifting his head up. Clee's eyes followed, and House captured them. "But she's your daughter, and you love her, and I love you. So I care, because she's loved by the man I love. Don't keep secrets like this from me."

"Her mother and adopted father ignored the signs, thinking she had a simple case of viral sinusitis, explaining the fevers, headaches and pallor. It wasn't until the petechial rash appeared and the easy bruising began that she finally took Jenny to her pediatrician who promptly referred her to an oncologist named Frankel at Penn State. It…it's not good at all. Her prognosis is the shits…" He stopped talking because he couldn't anymore. Tears began to roll down his face. He brushed at them quickly with his hands, angry at his own emotionalism but they just kept coming. House grabbed his hands and pulled Clee into an embrace.

"She's only ten years old," Clee sobbed quietly into the crook of House's neck. "I can't bear the thought of—of—losing her."

"I know," House told him. Ordinarily he would have avoided this kind of situation—he wasn't a natural-born comforter—but this was _Justin_, and seeing him so devastated hurt House to his core and it took everything he had not to begin sobbing with him. That wouldn't have been cool; but holding his lover, rubbing his back gently, whispering to him—those things he could do.

"I'm sorry, Greg."

"Shut up," House told him, hugging his even tighter. "Don't…just—don't. She doesn't move away with her mother and her husband; I want to examine her. I want to make certain her pediatrician didn't screw up and as for this Frankel person—never heard of him, probably for a reason. If this is AML, I want the best oncologist I know treating her."

Clee lifted his head off of House's shoulder and pushed away just enough to look him in the eye. "You're referring to Wilson, aren't you?"

House nodded solemnly. "I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't think he was the best. This has _nothing_ to do with my past feelings for him. This is strictly professional."

"I know," Clee said softly. "Would he even be willing to consult on her case, considering Jenny's the daughter of his romantic rival—."

"Wilson is a professional and has a soft spot for sick children," House told him. "He's not any kind of competition, either. I love you, I'm with you, and that's final. If you don't want to consider this…."

Clee caressed House's face with his hand. "I'm not worried about that. I know you're mine. But isn't he in rehab in Texas?"

"We can call him there, arrange a video conference with him via Skype; he can consult informally that way until he's completed his program and gets a temporary waiver to practice in Pennsylvania," House told him.

"_If_ he agrees," Clee pointed out. "And don't forget that his therapists might have a thing or two to say about it.

House simply shook his head. "Leave it to me," he said to the surgeon. "Let me take care of this. I'll work things out with Wilson; you work things out with Jenny's mother."

"Okay," Clee agreed, murmuring, "but if he tries to so much as shake your hand I'll break it. You're all mine, Gregory House."

House smiled. "Yes, Master. I'm your love slave—I fuck you and only you until I die."

"And don't you forget it," Clee told him, trying to sound lighthearted, but his pain was too great, and a couple more tears escaped his eyes. House kissed those tears before they fell from his face.

"Let's go home," House told him.

"But what about the results of Stephania's presentation—the award ceremony?" Clee protested.

"She'll forgive us eventually," House answered, rising to his feet with the help of his cane and just a small protest from his leg. "She'll understand once it's explained to her why we left."

Clee nodded, sighing. He rose to his feet, too. They walked, joined at the hands, out of the building.


	61. Chapter 61 Part 3 Ch 27

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Monday, August 2, 2010; 10:03 A.M.**

Wilson had had a supervised weekend pass from Silver Springs so House hadn't been able to contact him immediately after Clee and he had decided to involve him in Jenny's case. Her mother, Marilyn, and her husband Paul had tentatively agreed to the plan, but still hadn't confirmed whether or not they would postpone their move across the country with Jenny. House and Bell had examined Jenny, run every test they had, or so it seemed, but had only ended up confirming the original diagnosis: Jenny indeed had late stage two AML.

Late Sunday night as they lay cuddled up together in bed in the dark, Clee had commented that if they moved Jenny in her condition against medical advice he feared she wouldn't survive it. House had remained silent, thinking about that as he'd caressed Clee's arm gently. Clee had lay with his right cheek pressed against House's chest, being somewhat soothed by the strong, steady beating of his lover's heart. He'd had his left arm and leg stretched over House so that he was holding him with his entire body; House loved it when Clee did that, since it made him feel completely wanted and needed.

"Fight them," House had said at last. Clee had lifted his head and stared at him quizzically. House had gone on to say, "Your name is on her birth certificate, isn't it? You didn't give up parental rights when Paul was added as a legal guardian of Jenny, did you?"

"No," Clee had answered. "My lawyer arranged it so that I maintained my parental rights. Paul is allowed by law to make decisions concerning Jenny when both Marilyn and I are not available or unable to make them. Technically it's not really an adoption, but a legal agreement among the three of us."

House had nodded. "So if they plan to move her, fight them on it. If you have to, take it to court. If necessary, sue for sole custody. You have Frankel's, Bell's and my recommendations that she not move at this time which can be presented in family court to support your case. If Wilson agrees to consult and concurs with us, you'll have his testimony as well."

"Greg, I don't want to tear Jenny's family apart when she needs as much love and support as she can get right now," Clee had told him.

"But you'll stand back and do nothing when Marilyn and Paul do that by moving her away from you," House had countered pointedly. "They are determined to do something that they've been told will be detrimental to Jenny's health because he has a seven digit a year job waiting for him there. They haven't considered the fact that as her father you have a legal say as well—but that legal say is only good if you speak up and act. If you let them move her you will be complicit in an act that will likely end up killing her. You're her family, too."

Clee had considered that for a couple of minutes before saying anything again. "You realize that if it comes down to my having to sue for sole custody and I win, Jenny will come to live with me when she's not in hospital, don't you? _I_ would love that…but it would mean that you would have to share me with her more than you have to now. If we do permanently move in together like we've been talking about, she will be living with us. You understand that, right?"

House had been thinking about it since he'd found out that Jenny was ill and had been working through the implications. He'd nodded. "I do. I'm okay with that. As long as I get to spend my life with you, I'm willing to share you with your kid. Who knows—maybe Jenny and I will end up getting along; she seems to be likable and she's old enough that I don't have to change her poopy diapers or get spit up on. Justin, I can't stand in the way and by doing so cause you to lose Jenny. I love you; when you're happy, I'm happy."

Clee had smiled and had moved up to kiss House deeply and tenderly. House had returned it with eagerness, wanting and needing him just as much as Clee had House. They'd made love with House reveling in the fact that it never grew old or boring with Clee; each time was just as exciting and fulfilling as the last if not, indeed, more so.

Now House sat in his office alone, his hand resting on the telephone, summoning the courage to make the call to Silver Springs again. Clee sat on a chair he'd pulled up next to House and placed his hand on House's.

"Are you sure…?" he asked House.

"Yes," House told him with a nod and then lifted the receiver and dialed the number. The facility's receptionist answered. Immediately he switched the call to speakerphone so Clee could listen in and contribute. When he asked to speak to Wilson she redirected his call and it began to ring again. It was picked up on the third.

"Dr. Alex Cryer, speaking."

_Great, the idiot shrink_, House thought before he spoke. "This is Dr. Gregory House calling from St. Luke's Presbyterian Hospital. I wish to speak to Dr. James Wilson; he's a patient at your facility."

"I recognized your voice, House," Alex said drily. "May I ask why you want to speak to him?"

"It's a medical matter," House answered, annoyed that this guy wasn't fetching Wilson. "I've called to ask him for a consult."

"James isn't currently practicing. House," Alex told him, a touch of condescension to his voice. "He's a patient here, coming along well with his treatment and this isn't a good time—"

"That should be his decision, not yours," House told him pointedly, raising his voice suddenly.

"Actually, I can bar anyone I want from having contact with my patient at this time if I think such contact would detrimentally affect him," Alex said confidently. House imagined the therapist with a smug smirk on his face, heady on his little power trip. "His last encounter with you set him back several weeks in his recovery. He's finally caught up—I don't want to see his hard work disturbed again."

"This is strictly a professional call," House said, holding the receiver so tightly that his whole arm trembled; his power of restraint only lasted so long. "It concerns a ten-year old girl with AML, a serious form of leukemia. Wilson sub-specialized in cancers of the blood. It's not too late for her but it soon will be without specialized treatment. There's no oncologist that I trust more than Wilson. Now, if you can live with the death of a child on your hands because you wanted to exert some kind of power trip over me—"

Clee cut in before House could say something he would regret. "Dr. Cryer, this is Dr. Justin Clee. The child with AML is my daughter. Dr. Wilson was referred to me as being one the best equipped oncologists in the country to consult on her treatment. I don't wish to cause further problems for Dr. Wilson…but I'm a father who is going to watch his daughter die and I'm searching for any way possible to keep that from happening. If Dr. Wilson refuses to take this call or decides that he's not interested in consulting then I'll respect his decision and not bother him again. All I ask is for an opportunity to speak to him and make my request and present him with the facts surrounding my daughter's case and current treatment."

There was a long pause of silence from Alex, though one could hear him breathing and rustling papers so the connection hadn't been lost. Finally he spoke. "I'm sorry to hear that your daughter is ill, Doctor. I'll tell you what—I'll give James the message that you called and why and then leave it up to him whether he wants to call you back. He's currently in a session but as soon as that is over I'll speak to him. I can't promise you anything more than that."

"Listen," House cut in, "this child doesn't have time to waste on your petty little games—"

Clee squeezed House's arm tightly and interrupted him, "Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate that. Good day, sir."

"Good day, Dr. Clee."

Clee ended the call, took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and then released his grip on House's arm and looked at him.

"Have you and Liv worked on your anger management issues yet?" he asked House calmly but frowning. "If not, I think that might be a direction in your therapy you should consider."

"He's erected himself God over Wilson and is making his decisions for him!" House insisted.

"No," Clee answered him. "He's acting in what he feels is the best interest of his patient's recovery. You and I would do the exact same thing if we felt something or someone threatened one of our patients."

"Maybe you would," House muttered, looking away from his partner. Clee turned House's head so that he could look him in the eye.

"So would you. I know it, and you do, too."

"You're confusing me with a human being again," House told him, looking away. House knew that Clee was right and because of his stupidity they might have lost their best opportunity for Jenny.

"There's no confusion," Clee told him, his tone softening. "You really believe that if anyone can help Jenny, Wilson can. You were simply trying to see that happen because you love me, and you care about a little girl, and you let your frustration get the best of you. That sounds pretty human to me."

"Just can't stand little pissant control freaks. I can't suck up to them—that's not me."

"So don't think of it as sucking up to them," Clee told him with a shrug. "Play their game and beat them at it. Direct and manipulate them by leading them to think that they're in power when really you're pulling their strings. I know you're brilliant enough to figure out how to do that. It works pretty well for me. He would have hung up on you in two seconds if I hadn't played his game. So what if he _thinks_ he's in charge—I'm the one that got what I wanted in the end. Now he'll not only tell Wilson about the call, but he might even encourage him to call back so he can feel like a hero in doing his part to rescue a dying child." Clee's voice caught on the second last word and the last word came out as a whisper.

House wished he could promise him that she wouldn't die but he couldn't. As far as House was concerned Wilson was the best man for the job of treating her, but even Wilson lost patients—many of them—because at present that was the way it was with cancer.

Having nothing he felt was good enough to say, House leaned in and kissed Clee gently, cupping his cheek. He was kissed back with trembling lips, but Clee managed to keep his tears at bay.

"Thanks," he whispered when their lips parted.

"For what?" House asked.

Clee shrugged. "For humbling yourself enough to go to Wilson with this…don't think I don't know how hard this is for you."

House shrugged and sighed. "We don't know if Wilson will even return the call."

"No we don't," Clee agreed, "but you made the effort; that's what matters."

**Monday, August 2, 2010; 12:12 P.M.**

They were eating lunch in House's office when the call from Wilson came. Kirkland buzzed him to let him know that Wilson was on line two. House gave Clee a look before picking up the receiver.

"This is House."

"I called you back because Alex told me it was about a child who was very ill," Wilson told him straight up, sounding strained. "I'm not in the mood for games, House, so if that's what this is—"

"I'm putting you on speakerphone Wilson so Justin can listen in," House told him as he switch things over and set the receiver down.

"What does Justin have to do with any of this?" Wilson demanded.

"It's my daughter who's dying," Clee spoke up before House could answer. "Jenny is ten years old and has stage two Acute Myeloid Leukemia. The oncologist she was originally referred to made the diagnosis and told her mother and step-father that her chances of survival were very grim. House and his team confirmed his diagnosis. She lives with them though I have joint custody. Despite obvious indications that something was wrong, her mother and her husband chose to ignore them until they were unavoidable. She nearly bled to death after a soccer ball hit her in the chest and caused a rupture of a very small vessel that shouldn't have caused the amount of bleeding that it did. I didn't find out until very recently. Greg immediately suggested that you should be called to consult on her case; currently a member of his team who also happens to be an oncologist has been granted her case but she wants you to be actively involved and so do I."

"I'm currently in hospital myself—" Wilson began but Clee cut him off.

"I…know that, Doctor. I also know how peculiar and uncomfortable this request must be to you under the circumstances…but I'm talking to you as a dad, now." Clee paused for a moment to compose himself. He felt House gently grasp his hand and give it a squeeze of encouragement. "I always knew that as a gay man my likelihood of having children was greatly reduced, though I always wanted to be a father. When a woman who was a good friend of mine told me that she wanted to have a baby but wasn't in a relationship of any kind and hated the idea of using an anonymous donor, we decided that I would father her—our—child. She married a few years after Jenny was born, but Jenny has always known me as her Daddy.

"She's my pride and joy and I love her enough to do anything I possibly can to try to save her, including asking my lover's ex for help. Greg tells me that you're the best, that you've sub-specialized in cancers of the blood and that he trusts you more than any other oncologist he's ever known. He—we—never would have disturbed you during your treatment if we didn't think you were Jenny's last, best hope."

"I can't leave here again," Wilson answered, but House could recognize from the sound of his voice that he was at war within himself over whether or not to get involved. "The last time I did I…didn't fare very well. I have to finish my treatment."

"We know that," House told him. "Both Justin and I don't want to interrupt that. We were thinking that if you agreed to consult, we could carry on over Skype. The new diagnostics department is complete and the ribbon cutting is coming up—the conference rooms are fully equipped with everything needed to meet with you over the internet, send you real-time imaging and other pertinent data as needed. All you need is an internet-ready laptop with a built in camera and microphone, broadband connection, and a Skype subscription. My department has its own lab and imaging room including an MRI machine which my department has priority use of at any time. As Justin told you, if you agreed you'd be working with Dr. Norma Bell, an oncologist I hired as a member of my staff. She's…bright, a good doctor—but she doesn't know I think that and she doesn't need to know or she'll get uppity and demand more money."

"God forbid," Wilson said with a hint of the same dry sarcasm he used to have when dealing with House. He paused a moment before saying, "I need time to think this over, discuss it with my therapy team, before I can give you an answer."

"Wilson," House said impatiently, "she doesn't have a lot of time to spare. Put your anger and hurt feelings aside and do this to help the kid."

"It has nothing to do with my so-called hurt feelings," Wilson informed him. "What you're asking for will take a great deal of time and commitment and I have to make certain that…that I'm in a place mentally and physically where I can do the case justice without wearing myself too thin. I know that sounds selfish but…"

"It doesn't sound selfish at all," Clee told him sincerely. "I understand completely. I also know that you are aware of the kind of timeframe we're looking at as far as Jenny is concerned, so I know that you'll make your decision as quickly as you can. I really do appreciate you considering this, Doctor."

House looked at his lover with admiration. Here Clee was putting himself in debt to his supposed rival, humbling himself to the man who would have seduced House away from him if he could have, with such grace and sincerity all so that his daughter would have the best chance at cheating her death sentence. He thought about his own parents, fully aware that they never would have made such a sacrifice and humble themselves for him that way; John had mistreated him out of resentment that he felt for Blythe's infidelity that had resulted in House being born and Blythe had failed to stand up to her husband and risk her image and position to protect her only son. House determined that he would help Jenny understand just how much her father loved her, and how very lucky she was to be loved by such a man. House was still discovering how lucky he was to be loved by Clee, too.

"I'll get back to you by tomorrow with my decision," Wilson told him before hanging up. House hung up as well, still staring at Clee.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" the surgeon asked him warily.

"I'm trying to decide how much of that was you playing him, and how much was sincere," House admitted.

"It was all sincere," Clee told him gravely. "When it comes to saving Jenny, it's as sincere as it can get. I don't play people all the time, Greg."

"Good." House pulled him into a kiss, then, "I love you. He'll say yes."

"I hope so," Clee whispered, looking anything but convinced.

Hanging up the receiver, James Wilson then stared at the phone. He sat alone in the patient recreation lounge; another group session had just begun but he'd been excused from attending it for that day so he could make the call. He was numb which he knew wasn't a healthy reaction to this unexpected turn of events. His initial reaction had been to say no to Clee's request immediately just on principle but the fact was the genuine fear and grief he'd heard in the vascular surgeon's voice had made him reconsider.

It was almost galling of House to call Wilson to ask a favor on behalf of his Justin, the man whom he'd chosen over him. Of course, House had always been ballsy, something that had both astonished and attracted Wilson to the man for years. It either demonstrated that House was so socially inept that he was oblivious to the fact that he was making an imposition on Wilson while indebting himself to him, or that he loved Clee enough to risk looking like an asshole (something that House had never really cared much about) and submitting himself to Wilson's mercy to help the man get the treatment his daughter needed. It was also a little flattering to think that in spite of everything that had happened recently House still trusted Wilson's skill and expertise as an oncologist.

He had to admit that Clee had been smart in doing the talking rather than leaving that up to House. If House had been the one making the request he and Wilson would likely have ended up in a war of words that would have wound up with him hanging up on the diagnostician and refusing to even consider the request.

The issue that was holding Wilson back from giving them an immediate yes was, of course, the pain—and the love—that Wilson felt every time he so much as thought about the House; the possibility of seeing him, even if it was over Skype and not in person, both excited and frightened him. He was only just beginning to accept the fact that he'd lost House with his inability to stop looking at him as the pain-in-the-ass, unemployable, drug-addicted friend who used Wilson rather than really cared about him. House had been making a crucial and life-changing step forward by leaving Princeton and taking the job at St. Luke's. From what Wilson had seen that step had been the best move House had ever made for himself, and instead of looking at that as something he could be proud of and share with him, Wilson had allowed his own hang-ups, fear, and pride get in the way.

Justin Clee, however, had had no pre-conceived opinion about House and had been open and patient enough to see the greatness just waiting to emerge in him as House's healing—his transformation, really—was allowed and encouraged to take place in his new surroundings. How could House _not_ have been drawn to that kind of love, respect and acceptance coming from not only Clee but from Hutton and her friends and colleagues who had welcomed House in as one of their own? House hadn't been treated to that kind of reception from him or Cuddy or even his team in a very long time—if ever.

Now it was Wilson's sense of guilt and loss that held him back from being there for House and Clee. He was having trouble with accepting the fact that House's moving on without him had been the best thing in the world for the diagnostician and that instead of House screwing up his life and holding him back, Wilson had been unwittingly guilty of doing that to the man he'd called his best friend. It hadn't been House that had abandoned their friendship and anything more, but him. Wilson realized he'd been just as presumptuous and galling to re-enter House's life and expect him to simply give up everything he'd worked so hard for, as well as the man who had stood behind him and believed in him, and enter into a relationship with Wilson, as House had been to call him today. There was a significant difference however; House's presumption had been to benefit Clee's daughter Jenny rather than himself; Wilson's motivation hadn't come even close to being as unselfish.

Was it right of him to deny Clee's request simply because he was jealous of the man who had rightfully won House's heart, especially when that denial could potentially result in the unnecessary death of an innocent child?

Wilson sighed wearily and rubbed his face with both hands. He rose slowly from the armchair he'd been seated in and walked back to his room. Sitting down on his bed Wilson then lay down and grabbed the framed photograph that he kept on the bedside table. It was a photograph of House he'd snapped with his cell phone camera the night of their lovemaking. House had been lying on the bed, his upper body nude and his lower half draped with a blanket. He had been staring up at Wilson with that rare but beautiful smile he had, not suspecting the sudden appearance of the phone and snap of the picture being taken. That was what Wilson could have seen every night for the rest of his life had he not been so selfish and bull-headed. He kept that picture as a reminder to himself of why he was there in rehab, why he really had to take his therapy seriously now. If he was ever again to feel as happy as he had when he took that picture, Wilson knew he had to get his own head screwed on straight.

Did he still have a chance of winning House back? Probably not, and Wilson wondered if he should even be thinking about trying. House had found his happiness elsewhere; perhaps now it was Wilson's time to do the same.

After he called Clee back the next morning and told him yes, of course.

**Tuesday, August 3, 2010; 11:42 A.M.**

House was yelling at his team again when Clee pushed the almost-closed door to his office open and stepped noiselessly inside, closing the door to its original state behind him. He was facing the board, ranting, and hadn't noticed his partner's arrival yet.

"Think!" House exclaimed in frustration. "Swollen eyeballs, watery, painful eyes not associated with conjunctivitis, no elevation of her white blood cell count, histamine levels normal, headaches, fever without apparent infection, blistering in the ears, nose and throat, and now complex partial seizures!"

"What if she has an infection that is so localized, the rest of the body hasn't had a chance to detect it yet?" Ferry asked, thinking out loud. "We know that he immune system is depressed due the steroidal therapy she was on for her asthma. What if it's suppressed enough that it can't be triggered? "

"She had a temporary histamine flux when her friend brought her those lilies," Preston argued, shaking his head. "Her history describes only a weak allergy to pollen. Her immune system wasn't too repressed to react to that."

"Unless…," Bell said slowly, her mind working away at the puzzle. House turned enough to look at her.

"Go on," House urged quietly. Out of the corner of his eye he now saw Clee standing by the door but didn't want to disturb her processing by reacting to him immediately.

"If the body is bombarded with low levels of an allergen over time," Bell continued thoughtfully, "it can become used to the allergen and be desensitized to it. If there is an infectious agent that had been in her body for a long time, lying dormant or weakly active, she may have become desensitized to it, so in normal situations her body has a very weak or non-existent immune response to it. So the fact that she isn't showing a response right now doesn't necessarily mean there isn't an infection. If something had suddenly made her body sensitive to the infection—say the cessation of her steroid treatment combined with an allergic reaction to pollen, perhaps her histamine levels would show up as elevated now."

"If a dormant infection has suddenly become active after being triggered by something," Preston added, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, "it could have the same effect."

"But what infection are we looking at?" Ferry demanded. "The seizures suggest neurological."

"That's what you're going to find out," House told her. "Turn vampire and run another round of blood tests, including a viral load. Preston, CT her head, look for evidence of a brain or CNS infection. You two, vamoose! Bell, stay here."

"Teacher's pet," Preston said to Bell with an amused smirk as he rose from his chair and followed Ferry out the door. Once they were gone, Bell rose from her chair as well and House turned his full attention to Clee. The surgeon's face was serious, inscrutable.

"How did you know I was in the mood for office nookie?" House asked him, smiling in spite of his own anxiety.

"You're always in the mood for office nookie," Clee told him, approaching.

"And why am I here listening to this rather than off doing my job?" Bell asked, raising an eyebrow. "I don't do office nookie, especially threesomes."

"Damn," House responded in mock-disappointment. "There goes that idea."

Both Bell and Clee shook their heads at him.

"He called back," House said to Clee, making a statement rather than asking a question. "What did he say?"

Clee broke into a Cheshire grin. "He's getting Skype as we speak."

House exhaled in relief and allowed himself a smile. "I told you he was a bleeding heart."

"There is one condition, though," Clee told him, sobering. "Wilson wants you to back off and allow Bell and him to handle the case. If he wants your input, he'll ask for it."

House frowned slightly. "Uppity bastard."

"I agree with him," Clee told him gently. "You may not know Jenny very well, but you know me, which makes you family, not physician in this case. Wilson said that he made the mistake of treating a friend once after ignoring _your_ advice that friends don't treat friends for cancer. He said that he nearly killed the man and that it cost him far too much to make it right again. He said you'd understand."

House did indeed, and as much as he hated to admit it, he knew that Wilson was right.

"Alright," he grumbled before grabbing Clee's hand and pulling him into an embrace followed by a very hot and hungry kiss of which his partner was readily an active participant.

"Ahem," Bell said, pretending to clear her throat.

House broke the kiss, looking at her. "You're still here? Unless you've changed your mind about threesome office nookie you might want to go make arrangements with Wilson now—unless you like to watch." He wagged his eyebrows suggestively.

Bell smirked and headed for the door but House heard her say on her way out, "I think I'll take a raincheck."

Before driving Clee home House and he stopped at Jenny's room. She was asleep, snoring lightly. Her skin was almost translucent, causing her freckles to stand out more than usual. The heart monitor she was attached to had its volume turned down low to make it easier for the girl to sleep. Jenny definitely resembled her father strongly; she had his shape of face, his straight nose and mouth with the corners set upward to look like she was smiling perpetually.

A nurse was the only other person in the room when the men arrived. It surprised House that her mother and stepfather weren't sitting with her, keeping vigil. If House would have let him, he knew Clee wouldn't leave Jenny's side—but his partner was still recovering from a health crisis of his own and needed proper sleep, not the fitful type one got dozing off in a chair.

"She looks so pale," Clee said softly, going to the chair next to her bed and sitting down. He took a hold of one of Jenny's hands and kissed it tenderly. "So fragile." The fear in his voice was painful to House's ears. House moved to stand beside him, resting one of his hands on Clee's shoulder.

"She's stable," House reminded him, not knowing what else to say. "Wilson will help her."

"You have tremendous faith in him," Clee murmured, not taking his eyes off of his daughter. "I hope you're right."

_Me, too,_ House thought grimly. "I am," he told his partner, filling his words with a confidence he didn't feel. Both he and Clee looked up when the door to the room opened and Marilyn entered carrying a coffee from Starbucks. The last time House had checked, St. Luke's didn't have a Starbucks.

"It's about time you showed up to check on her," Marilyn told Clee a little more sharply and loudly than House liked, but the surgeon simply shrugged.

"I've been making arrangements with the oncologist Greg suggested," Clee told her quietly, frowning slightly when Jenny stirred at the high volume of her mother's voice.

"Yeah, and recuperating from a gunshot wound to the chest," House added with snark. "The nerve of him being weak and easily tired."

"Greg," Clee murmured, looking up at him and resting his hand on the one House still had on his shoulder. It was an unspoken caution to him. "We should switch places. Your leg must be getting tired."

It was, and it was beginning to hurt a little more than usual, but House could handle standing for a while longer. He didn't like the way Clee looked completely worn out and pale and didn't want him to exert himself any more than he had to.

"I'm fine," House told him.

"Well, I could use a sit," Marilyn announced, glaring at Clee expectantly. "That was quite the hike I just made; Paul had to run an errand and took the car. The coffee in the cafeteria tastes like sludge."

"Well, you would know," House said mildly, but it masked an undertone of sarcasm; his eyes practically burned through her. He felt Clee squeeze his hand suddenly and hard, a silent warning to behave and not get into an argument with Marilyn. With less bite, House added. "I'll go see about another chair being brought into here."

Clee smiled appreciatively, squeezing House's hand much more gently this time before releasing it so House could leave the room. While he didn't like leaving his lover alone to deal with that barracuda, he was glad to escape the discomfort and sense of helplessness that came from not knowing what to say or do to make Clee feel better. After going to the nursing station and requesting that another chair be taken to Jenny's room he found a nearby bench to sit on and rest his leg without Clee knowing that it was hurting him and feeling guilty. He was tempted to take his next dose of pain medication but it wasn't time for it yet so he set to massaging the damaged, cramping muscle instead.

"Something bothering you, Greg?"

House sighed before looking up at Nolan. "What, not enough crazies back at the asylum, you have to come recruiting?"

The psychiatrist smiled amusedly at the comment and sat down on the bench as well. "I was just checking in on one of my patients who had a heart attack this morning and had to be rushed here. Leg still bothers you even with the pain management protocol you're on?"

"You're thinking psychosomatic," House said as if reading Nolan's mind. "Sorry, I have nothing to be worrying about and I'm happier than I've ever been. Just good old fashioned overuse to blame this time."

"Hm," Nolan hummed non-committally. "I spoke to Liv yesterday. She told me about Justin's daughter and you approaching Wilson to consult on her treatment. How did that go?"

"My boyfriend is more diplomatic than I am," House answered. "Justin talked to Wilson and after thinking about it overnight he agreed to consult with the stipulation that I butt out and give him space to work."

"How do you feel about that?"

House shrugged, "I'm fine with it. It's wise if Wilson and I have limited contact."

Nolan studied him for a second before asking, "Why is that?"

House scrutinized the psychiatrist as well, wondering what was up. House had been seeing Hutton almost exclusively for weeks with no noise from Nolan. Now he was full of questions.

"We parted under less than ideal circumstances when he was here last," House answered. "I'm sure Liv filled you in on Wilson's desire to reconcile with me. When I chose Justin over him he was hurt, pissed off. He returned to rehab, but according to his therapist he slipped and it took a lot of work to get him back to where he was before he came to Philadelphia to see his brother. Why are you suddenly interested enough to start a mini-session here in the middle of the corridor?"

"I've been interested all along," Nolan replied calmly, unaffected by House's suspicion. "You've been doing well with Liv, but she's kept me up to date. I decided to touch base personally while I was here today. If you like we can go to your office—?"

"Actually, I would rather not talk at all," House told him. "I'm out here to give Justin and Marilyn space as they visit their daughter. It's that or I clobber Marilyn senseless for being a selfish moron. This way Justin doesn't have to bail me out of jail."

"Good choice," Nolan told him with a slight smile. "You have issues with Justin's ex?"

House shifted on the bench, rubbing his thigh absently. "She's not his ex. He's gay—_I'm_ the one who's bisexual. They were two friends in places in their lives where they each wanted kids but the circumstances made that difficult. She wasn't dating and Justin…well, it should be apparent why he wasn't in a position to have kids. They figured together they could make a baby the good old fashioned way—_in vitro_ fertilization."

"But you don't like her, all the same," Nolan surmised. "How come?"

House sighed. It appeared like he was going to have this conversation whether he wanted to or not. Traffic along that corridor was light and those who did use it were in too much of a hurry to listen in. They were far enough away from the nurses' station to be heard by anyone there.

"I don't know her well enough to like or dislike her," House admitted. "She and her husband Paul want to move to L.A. right away where he has a promotion and a lot more money waiting for him but Jenny is too sick to move. They're resisting that and it's causing Justin concern. If they move Jenny at this stage, she probably won't make it."

"Have Marilyn and Paul had it explained to them the risk such a move would have on Jenny and why?"

House rolled his eyes, "No, Nolan. We just stuck out our tongues and told them 'because we said so'. They've been told. I spelled it out to them like they were three year olds but I think even a three year old would have responded more intelligently than they did."

"So what are Justin's options?" Nolan asked with genuine curiosity.

"He has full parental rights, though Jenny lives with Marilyn and Paul. If they decide to move in spite of the risk, Justin will go to court to prevent it, and sue for sole custody."

Nolan raised an eyebrow. "And you're alright with that?"

"She's Justin's kid," House answered with a shrug. "He loves her, and I…."

"Yes?"

"I…love him," House said, lowering his voice subconsciously. "I can't stand in the way."

Nolan nodded and smiled. "I'm impressed," he told House, rising to his feet. "You've put in a lot of hard work. Good for you."

"Aw, shucks," House responded sarcastically. "My Mommy will be proud of me."

"Have you had contact with her since you moved to Philadelphia?" Nolan asked as House slowly stood, too.

"Not yet," House admitted. "I think it will be interesting when she finds out I'm living with another guy."

"She doesn't know that you're bi?"

"It's not exactly something that's come up in my semi-annual phone calls with her," House answered, "but I get the feeling she knows. She's been trying to sell Wilson to me for years."

Nolan was about to say something when Marilyn emerged from Jenny's room swearing and Clee followed her.

"She'll be fine," Marilyn told Clee angrily. "You doctors always blow things out of proportion. You're just using this as an excuse because youy don't want Jenny to move across the country from you!"

"Stop shouting," Clee told her firmly, keeping his volume under control. "It's bad enough you did it in there and woke her up. Of course I don't want Jenny to leave—she's my daughter and I love her. I'm not blowing this out of proportion. You've had three highly trained doctors tell you that she's not stable enough right now to undergo the kind of stress that kind of move would have on her. I've received word from Dr. Wilson that he will consult on Jenny's case. It's in her best interest to stay here for now. Isn't that more important than packing her up and putting her through the ordeal of travel when she's so weak? Let Paul go on ahead and you can stay with here with Jenny until she's doing better."

"No," Marilyn insisted, shaking her head. "This is a huge opportunity for Paul, Jenny, and me and we're leaving next Monday. End of discussion."

"Then you better call ahead and have the coroner meet you at LAX," House said sharply. "One he determines that she died from the trip after you were told the risk you and Paul will find yourself facing charges of child endangerment causing death, so might want to advise that the police be there to greet you as well."

Marilyn looked at him and scowled. "Stay out of this! Justin, tell your most recent lay to butt out!"

"No, Marilyn," Clee said, shaking his head. "Greg is right; he's my partner and will be a huge part of Jenny's life—this involves him, too. I thought Jenny was the most important person in the world to you, but obviously I was wrong. Money and prestige have pushed her to the back seat. If you so much as try to have her discharged from this hospital I will have a judge slap down an injunction so fast your head will spin and I'll sue you for custody of our daughter. I won't let you jeopardize her life unnecessarily and after a handful of experts testify in court that that's exactly what moving her now will do, I'll win. I didn't want it to come to this, but you're forcing my hand; I have no choice. I already have my lawyer waiting to file the papers and his number is on speed dial."

"No judge in his or her right mind would take a child away from her mother and hand her over to a gay man and his lover," Marilyn spat viciously, but House could see the fear and uncertainty in her eyes, in the way her body was rigid and her breathing rapid and uneven.

"I'm not just any gay man, Marilyn," Clee told her, thoroughly disgusted. "I'm her father and apparently the only parent Jenny has that cares about her more than himself. I think that will be far more important to a judge than what my sexual preference is. I'll see you in court."

"I guess you will," she told him coldly before glaring at House and going back into Jenny's room.

"I'll leave you two to talk," Nolan murmured to House, who nodded absently in acknowledgement and approached Clee. Nolan left. Once right next to him, House could see that Clee was trembling.

"Come on," House told him quietly, wrapping his arms around Clee's waist. "We'll call your lawyer from the nursing station and then let security know to keep a watch out, just to make certain Marilyn doesn't try to sneak Jenny out. Then I'm taking you home and taking care of you for the rest of the night."

Clee rested his forehead against House's and let out a shaking breath before whispering, "I don't know what I would do right now without you, Baby. Thank you."

House kissed him gently and then with an arm still around him, walked with Clee to the nursing station to make those calls.


	62. Chapter 62 Part 3 Ch 28

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Monday, August 3, 2010; 8:16 P.M.**

For House, taking care of Clee included fixing him a delicious meal, running him a hot bubble bath and joining him (hey, it was good for his leg!), and then giving him a massage on his bed—a real massage, not simply a prelude to sex, although anything that involved touching each other sensuously eventually led to sex.

"Oh God, Greg," Clee groaned appreciatively, "you've got magic hands!"

House was kneeling straddled over Clee's legs and the surgeon was lying face down on the bed, his head turned to the side so he could breathe; they were both nude, not having bothered to throw any clothes on following the bath. Putting most of his weight on his left knee to take it easy on his damaged leg, House used his long-fingered yet strong hands to knead away at the knots in the muscles of Clee's back. He used massage oil scented like musk and sandalwood that Clee liked (House wasn't one overly picky about details like scent so whatever worked for Clee worked for him, too). At his lover's comment, House leaned down and tenderly kissed the back of his neck.

"The rest of my anatomy isn't half-bad, either." House quipped. "I prefer studying yours, though." Clee had had so many knots from tension that it had taken House almost an hour of strong massage before the knots began to release. The pain management regimen he was on was good, but kneeling for that length of time still caused him some pain. He chose to ignore it, though, focusing on his partner's comfort and relief instead.

Clee had a slender build, but that didn't mean he was scrawny; his muscle development on his back, buttocks and legs was very good and it turned House on just to observe it, to run his hands over him. Clee's skin was fair, soft and smooth; pale freckles ran along his shoulders and shoulder blades. House often enjoyed playing 'Connect-the-Dots' with his tongue, and Clee had yet to complain. He adored the younger man's body, worshipped it as it deserved.

"You have the sexiest body I've ever made love to," Clee told him, his sentence ending in another moan of pleasure. House simply snorted at that. "You do," Clee insisted. "Don't argue with me."

"I wouldn't think of it," House said sarcastically. "I never duel with an unarmed man."

Before House knew what had happened, Clee had rolled over beneath him, grabbed his shoulders and rolled the both of them so that House ended up lying on his back looking up at the surgeon.

"Who says I'm unarmed?" Clee murmured and then ground his pelvis against House's. House felt his very hard erection against him. House had already been half-hard from the enjoyment he got out of sensually running his hands over Clee's skin and hearing him groan and moan in delight. Having Clee's hard on rubbing against his member caused him to become completely erect very quickly and House shivered from head to toe, gasping.

"I stand corrected," House said breathlessly. "And when I say stand, I'm not talking about on my feet." His lifted his pelvis so that his dick rubbed against Clee's again. The subsequent whimper he heard leave his lover made House smile smugly and grind against him again. Clee grinned, lowering himself in order to kiss House passionately, gaining access for his tongue into House's mouth and plunging in deeply. House groaned into Clee's mouth, one of his hands sneaking around Clee's back and beginning to rub circles at his tailbone while the other hand found thick blond hair and began to twirl it and comb his fingers through the short, soft locks.

When their mouths parted so they could breathe House took the opportunity to leave open-mouthed kisses along Clee's jaw line, his neck to the spot where the neck met the shoulder. There House sucked and bit lightly, knowing that it was a definite erogenous zone for Clee, whose breath caught before he hummed happily.

"Hmmm, Greg, you are so incredible," he breathed. "You know exactly what to do to drive me wild!"

House chuckled into his shoulder before seeking out Clee's mouth again. When they parted he told Clee, "You're so…so sexy. I can't touch you enough or keep myself from holding you. You have no idea what you do to me."

"I adore you," Clee replied between soft kisses on every part of House's face. "You show me every day that you love me. I don't know what I did that was great enough to deserve having you in my life but I'd do it a thousand times over if I had to in order to keep you."

"I'm not going anywhere unless you're coming with me," House told him, reaching up to cup his cheek and caress his cheekbone with his thumb. Clee's eyes closed and he nuzzled House's hand with a contented smile. That hand then went behind Clee's head and pulled him gently into another deep, passionate and somewhat urgent kiss that silently said that he'd had enough talk and wanted a whole lot more action. He got want he wanted as Clee turned up the heat, moving his oral ministrations from House's mouth down his body making stops at each nipple, his navel, and finally the head of House's very hard, very appreciative penis. House gasped as the pleasure from it shot through his body like electricity, and he bucked his hips involuntarily toward the source.

Clee chuckled deeply, his smoldering eyes meeting House's, and then firmly held House's hips down to the bed. "Uh-uh, Babe; we're gonna take this nice and slo-ooow."

"Sadist," House shot back, but the look on his face was a ravenous one. That only brought more delightfully sinful chuckles from his partner. Clee proceeded to suck on the tip of House's glans, occasionally running the tip of his tongue in the slit while one hand slowly stroked House's shaft with a feather-light touch and the other hand changed between gently massaging his balls and his perineum. Despite his efforts not to, House couldn't help but moan, quickly losing all higher cognition and focusing solely on the incredible pleasure from Clee's actions. Intermingled with the moans were the occasional expletive whispered and the odd whimper. The more vocalizations House made, the slower and more deliberate Clee became. House existed in a plane between bliss and utter frustration; he thought he might go mad from the teasing he was receiving and his own inability to move things along at a faster pace. It was absolute, torturous delight.

Clee lifted his mouth from House's dick long enough to ask him, "How bad do you want it, Baby? Do you need it? Will you scream for it?"

"Ah, fuck, yes, oh, Justin, no, please now!" House babbled, unable to string a cogent thought together. "Please, baby, _please!_" House was so undone that when Clee suddenly took him all into his mouth and deep into his throat he actually began to _giggle_, his left hand clawing at the sheet and his right combing through Justin's hair, tangling it around his fingers. After sucking and bobbing a few times and causing House to keen, Clee then released his cock and moved up to kiss House on the mouth before reaching into the drawer of the nightstand and pulling out a tube of lube. He quickly prepared himself before slicking House's cock with it. He tossed the tube aside and then positioned himself over House's twitching member before bringing himself down onto it. Slowly he completely sheathed House, groaning loudly as he did.

House gasped, overwhelmed, and then grabbed Clee for another frantic and forceful kiss. The younger of the two moaned into his lover's mouth, his hands sliding all over House's torso, his neck, his face, the thinning hair on his head, then down again along his flanks to House's ass, massaging the muscles and eliciting another expletive.

This was it, House thought fleetingly, this was what made life worth living. Not simply the incredible sexual pleasure but the intimacy, the bond between Clee and him.

"You're so beautiful," Clee murmured into House's ear before attacking his neck with open-mouthed kisses and nips of excitement as the pleasure and pressure built to dizzying heights.

"I love you," House murmured back between moans. "I love you, Justin. You're…you're…incredible!"

Clee was slowly rocking, and House was matching his motions, moving with him perfectly. As their excitement built, they began to speed up gradually in unspoken mutual agreement. Clee cried out when House grabbed his cock and began to stroke it in time with their thrusting and parrying. They were moaning, crying and gasping almost constantly now, their volume getting louder, their tone more desperate. Sweat slicked both of their bodies, soaked their hair, dripped onto the sheets; the heat between them was an inferno.

"Greg," Clee cried, his whole body trembling with each stroke of his prostate, "oh God, so good—so good! Oh—oh God! S-s-so p-perfect! Come for me, baby! I need you to—"

He never finished his sentence; House shouted out unintelligibly as he came hard into Clee, his hot, thick cum filling the surgeon up to overflowing. A second later Clee came as well, keening as he did. House thrusted a couple more times before relaxing allowing himself to fly with his orgasm, soaring with one of the best highs he'd ever experienced. No drug could compare to what he was experiencing with his lover lying bonelessly on top of him; Clee panted hot, moist breath against his cheek and House could feel his heart as it raced nearly as quickly as his own.

At some point, House wasn't exactly certain when, he wrapped his arms around Clee and held him close, wanting to maintain as much contact as possible for as long as possible.

Once Clee had regained his ability to speak he murmured, "Greg, was it just me or…or was that one of the best? It was so…so—"

"Intimate," House finished for him softly before kissing his forehead. "Yeah."

"You always seem to know what I need the most," Clee told him. "You knew that I just needed to be as close to you as I possibly could tonight."

"Hmm," House hummed contemplatively, his eyes heavily hooded in his state of complete relaxation. "I needed the same thing."

Clee slowly rolled off of House in spite of the way House tightened his embrace. He went to the bathroom and returned with two warm, damp washcloths for cleaning themselves up then returned them to the bathroom before climbing back into bed. He lay on his side with an arm draped over House's midsection and his left leg crossed over House's; his head rested on House's shoulder. House held his lover in his arms, lightly caressing Clee's arm.

"Being in contact with Wilson again is really bothering you, isn't it?" Clee whispered before kissing House's temple.

"Not in the way you think," House assured him. "When I'm with you I feel accepted, like I'm finally good enough to be loved. Before I met you, long before Wilson and I confessed our feelings for each other, I never felt worthy of his friendship, and he rarely ever argued with that or tried to convince me otherwise. After the infarction I think there was a part of Wilson who saw me as a drug addicted asshole and a burden more than he did a friend. He denied it if I confronted him directly about it and he did stand up for me before the hospital board and with Cuddy but…but I don't think he ever saw us as equals again. I felt as if he was doing me a favor by being my friend. When I see him…that insecurity returns."

"The problem is," Clee told him seriously, turning House's head to look at him, "Wilson had his head stuck up his ass and couldn't see that it was the other way around—that he was the one who didn't deserve your love and loyalty, especially after the crummy things he did to you over the years."

"But I did more crummy things to him than Wilson ever did to me," House argued.

Clee shook his head. "From what you've told me, Greg, I really don't think that's true. You never abandoned him; even after he pushed you away, you continued to care about him and do what you thought was in his best interest. He can't say the same. Baby, if you were as horrible a person as you still think you were, you would be just as horrible to me now that we're together but you know what? You are the best lover and best _friend_ I have ever had and there isn't a day that goes by where I don't ask myself if _I'm_ good enough for _you_."

"Shut up. You couldn't possibly."

"I do," Clee insisted. "The difference between us is that I like myself enough to say that while I'm not perfect—and nobody is, Greg—I am deserving of being loved and treated well so yes, I'm good enough. You are, too, babe. I yearn for the day when you can say that yourself and really believe it."

House was feeling extremely self-conscious by that point, and quieted his partner by kissing him languorously, deeply. He loved kissing Clee, could do it for hours if allowed, and be perfectly happy.

Clee broke the kiss. "We have to get some sleep. We're meeting with the lawyer first thing in the morning, remember?"

House sighed and nodded. He was exhausted and could see the same was true for Clee. He gave him one more kiss.

"Goodnight, Justin."

"Goodnight, Greg. I love you."

"You, too."

**Tuesday, August 4, 2010; 1:57 A.M.**

House woke with a start at the sound of his cellphone going off on the nightstand only inches from his head. The ringtone was "Respect" by Aretha Franklin, telling House right away that the caller was Bell. His hand shot out and grabbed the phone, answering it right away. He hoped to get it before the noise woke Clee but he realized he hadn't succeeded when the surgeon rolled over to face House and propped himself up on his elbow, blinking sleepily as he checked the time on the alarm clock.

"House," he said into his phone, "what's up, Bell?"

"I was called in to the hospital from home to sign discharge papers for Jenny Clee," she told him, her voice sounding strained. "Her mother and stepfather are here demanding that she be discharged into their care because they have a flight to LA to catch. I thought it was pretty odd that they were deciding to do this in the middle of the night so I called—"

"Good job," House told her approvingly. "Delay them as long as you can. Justin and I are on our way. Notify security—I already gave them a heads-up—and have Roth paged as well."

"Already done," Bell replied, "and right now I'm hiding and having the nursing staff tell the parents that I'm still on my way. Hurry!"

House hung up and turned to Clee. "Marilyn and Paul are at the hospital right now wanting to have Jenny discharged immediately. Apparently they have a flight to catch."

"Shit," Clee moaned, throwing the blankets off and jumping out of bed. "We have to get there in time to stop them!"

House was slowly rising off the bed as well, fighting the cramping of his leg and the breakthrough pain he was experiencing due to moving too quickly and unexpectedly. "Call the lawyer. Tell…uh!...tell him what's going on."

"I'll get you what the doctor prescribed for breakthrough pain first," Clee told him, heading to the bathroom.

Cursing his leg under his breath, House focused on his breathing and massaging the knots trying to form in his damaged thigh muscle. Clee returned promptly with an injection kit and a single-dose vial of Toradol. House was perfectly capable of giving himself the injection but Clee was insistent that he do it so House didn't argue. His partner swabbed the injection site with alcohol and then expertly gave him the shot. Clee then took the syringe, empty vial and used alcohol swab to the bathroom to properly dispose of them.

"You'll make a great nurse someday, Justin," House told him with a smirk, trying to break the tension in the air with a little teasing.

"Something to aspire to. Thank you for the vote of confidence, Babe," Clee retorted as he returned to the bedroom to dress and help House if he needed and allowed it.

"No problem." House managed to dress himself once the Toradol began to work, so Clee dressed and then went to the home office to find his lawyer's card and make that call. House then went to the bathroom, washed his hands, splashed some water onto his face and ran his fingers through his hair to make the worst of the cowlicks and stubborn waves settle down. There was no time to trim his scruff, which was becoming a little too scruffy even for him. He shrugged at himself in the mirror and went to find Clee.

The surgeon was just finishing his conversation with the lawyer when House entered the office.

"Yes, okay," Clee said into the phone, his back to the door. "How soon will you know?...Oh, okay…well, you have my cell number, right?...Good. Thanks Jack. I'll talk to you later."

He hung up and turned toward the door. "Jack said that he's going to make some calls and try to find a family court judge who won't be too pissed off at being awakened in the middle of the night to sign an emergency injunction to prevent Jenny from being discharged from the hospital and transported across state lines. He said he'll get back to us as soon as he can."

"Let's roll," House told him with a nod. They took Clee's car since he insisted on driving, not wanting House to overdo it with his leg. House had argued that his leg wasn't currently bothering him anymore thanks to the shot of Toradol and that he was due his normal morning medication cocktail in a few hours anyway. Still, he didn't push it, knowing that Clee had to feel like he was both in control of the situation with Jenny and still looking out for the man he loved. This wasn't time for two stubborn men to butt heads over something so trivial, not with a little girl's life at stake.

Neither of them felt all that chatty, so the ride to St Luke's was quiet and fast. At that time of the morning traffic was relatively light and they got to their destination quickly. They headed directly for Jenny's room; Bell was waiting for them when they got there. She was currently being barked at by Marilyn while Paul stood silently behind his wife, as always.

"You have no fucking right to refuse to sign those discharge papers!" Marilyn told her viciously. "That is my child and if I want to take her out of here tonight, then that's what I'm going to do!"

"Then you will have to do it AMA," Bell told her, sounding as if it was the hundredth time she told her that that evening. "It is my medical opinion that Jenny is not strong enough to be discharged at this time so I will not authorize it no matter how much you scream and yell and threaten me."

"You know damned well that if I take her with me AMA and something happens then her father will have grounds to go after me!" Marilyn returned, throwing her hands up in the air in frustration.

"That's not my concern one way or another," Bell lied masterfully, frowning. "My interest is in the health and well-being of my patient, not in the agendas of her parents. Now as soon as admitting sends up those AMA forms—"

"Yes, when will they get here?" Paul demanded one of his rare moments of actually speaking up. "I think that you've been told to stall us until Justin gets here."

"You're right," Clee told them, his voice quiet but sharp. He marched right up to Marilyn and Paul. House had his back, standing a half-step behind and to the right of him. The three who had just been arguing turned to look at Clee; Marilyn and Paul appeared livid but Bell visibly sighed in relief. "Don't take your venom out on Dr. Bell. She's doing her job. You two, on the other hand, decided you would sneak our daughter away under the cloak of darkness without my knowing, hoping you'd already be in LA before I found out. It won't work. My lawyer is, at this moment, filing an injunction request to keep you from kidnapping Jenny and risking her life in the process. You take her out of the state now and a warrant will be issued for your arrests."

"You can't do that," Paul scoffed.

"Actually, he can," House interjected coldly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Xander Roth stepping off the elevator and approaching. He came to stop by Marilyn and Paul.

"Who the hell are you?" Marilyn demanded, scowling.

"Dr. Alexander Roth," was the reply from the man wearing a light jacket over a polo shirt and simple pair of jeans and sneakers. "I'm the chief administrator of St. Luke's. I was notified that there was a problem. I gave a quick call to the hospital's chief legal counsel and apparently not only can Justin file for an injunction but I've been advised to contact Child Protective Services. I've received regular reports concerning your daughter's case and it's clear that what you are proposing to do is so dangerous to Jenny that the action could be considered recklessly endangering the health and safety of a minor in your care. If I call CPS, you will lose custody of Jenny until an investigation has been completed and CPS makes a decision of what would be in her best interest until the court has a chance to hear the case and make a ruling."

Marilyn glared at Clee. "You would allow your daughter to be handed over to the state like that?"

"He wouldn't have any choice in the matter," Roth answered for him. "There are serious implications here, Mrs. Davenport, both legally and ethically not only for the three of you as her parents but also for the hospital. I've encountered situations like this before; in cases like Jenny's, CPS usually prefers to place Jenny's care and custody in the hands of family if a child is removed from his or her current guardians. My bet would be that Justin would be the one they would grant sole custody to at least in the interim."

"I thought you cared more about Jenny than your own selfish, money-grubbing personal gain," Clee said to Marilyn and Paul, his fists clenching subconsciously. "I was wrong. Damnit, Marilyn! You get Jenny out of this hospital over my dead body if that's what it takes! I suggest you contact your lawyer because I intend to sue the both of you for permanent sole custody of Jenny and after this little stunt you two tried to pull tonight I'll win."

"Like hell you will," Marilyn spat. "No judge is going to reward custody to a faggot and his old, decrepit fuck-buddy!"

Clee suddenly lurched forward, surprising everyone. House quickly grabbed his shoulders to keep him from doing something he would forever regret. He'd never seen his partner as angry as he was right now.

"Justin!" House said quickly, glaring daggers at Marilyn and Paul. "They're not worth it. Focus on Jenny."

"Greg, I don't care what she says about me but I won't stand by and let her insult you—!" Clee began but was cut off by his cellphone ringing.

"That's Jack," House said softly to Clee. "Answer the phone."

Clee simply looked back at him as if he hadn't heard him. House repeated himself quietly, "Justin, answer the phone."

After the fourth ring Clee grabbed his phone out of his jacket and answered.

"Dr. Clee."

He listened for a few seconds, nodding as the person on the other end of the connection spoke before saying, "I'm going to put this on speakerphone, Jack. Can you repeat what you just told me?"

Clee put the call on speaker, holding it up so they all could hear. "Justin, I'm watching the Judge sign the injunction right now. It's for thirty days. If Jenny is moved from hospital for any reason without the consent of her primary doctor those removing her will be in violation of this order and will be arrested. You're lucky Judge Isler was suffering a bout of insomnia and I could get this thing prepped and run over here as quickly as I did. You owe me a twelve—no, sixteen—ounce ribeye at the restaurant of my choosing for this, my friend."

"Anytime you want to collect," Clee responded, unable to hold back a smile of victory and relief.

"I'll let you know when the court date for your custody hearing has been set," Jack told him. "Have a good night."

"It's just got a hell of a lot better, Jack, thank you," Clee answered before telling him goodnight and hanging up. He glanced at House, who was smirking smugly.

Marilyn and Paul were not amused. "We'll see about this," she told Clee, her face red with anger. "You are not taking my daughter away from me, Justin! It'll be over my dead body—or yours. You were nothing more than a sperm donor and that's all you'll ever be."

"Madam, if you don't quiet down, I'll be forced to ask you to leave," Roth told her. "This is a hospital and there are very sick patients requiring rest. One of those patients is your daughter. Surely you don't want her to hear you threatening her father."

"Marilyn," Paul said quietly to her, "he's right. Let's go. We'll call a lawyer and get this ridiculous injunction lifted."

Marilyn looked hatefully at Clee, then to House. She was breathing hard, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. "This isn't over, Justin."

"You're right," was all Clee said, his body ram-rod straight, the veins in his temples and neck visibly pulsing. He, too, was breathing quickly—too quickly for House's liking. House grabbed his wrist gently, subtly checking his pulse. It was very fast.

Leaning close, House whispered into Clee's ear, "Calm down. You're almost tachycardic. Don't let her do this to you."

"I'm fine," Clee murmured, his voice hard, but House knew that the anger wasn't directed at him. "Go home, Marilyn," Clee told her. "Call your lawyer. We'll get this settled once and for all."

Paul turned his wife and led her away.

"Xander," Clee said, "Thank you. I want a security guard watching Jenny's door, in case they try to sneak her out." The surgeon had broken out in a sweat.

"I'll take care of it," Roth told him, then glanced up at House. House caught the silent message in Roth's look and nodded nearly imperceptibly; he placed a hand on Clee's arm and turned him to face him as Roth walked away to contact security and Bell went into Jenny's room to check on her.

"They're gone, Justin," House told him softly, gently holding his shoulders. He couldn't get over the irony of the situation; House wasn't used to being the calmer voice of reason. He was usually in Clee's position. "You won't be doing Jenny any good if you end up back in the hospital."

Clee nodded, placing a hand on the back of House's neck and pulling their heads together until their foreheads were touching. They gazed into each other's eyes for a few seconds.

"I could have lost her tonight, Greg," Clee whispered. "I'm sorry for losing it—"

"Don't," House told him, shaking his head slightly. "No apologies. If Marilyn hadn't left when she did I was about to break a rule I have and knock her to the floor."

A slight smile pulled at the corners of Clee's eyes and mouth. "No you wouldn't have."

House sighed, smirking a little. "Okay, maybe not Marilyn—but Paul would have ended up with a mouth full of fist."

"I'm glad you didn't," Clee told him. He kissed House tenderly. "I need to go in to Jenny…Will you come with me?"

House nodded once. Clee clasped House's hand and led him into Jenny's room. Bell looked up from the charting she was doing at a small desk off to the left of Jenny's bed. She smiled as they approached her.

"I don't think she so much as stirred during all that," Bell told them, her voice hushed. "Around midnight she woke with bone pain so I upped her meds slightly. She's been resting quietly since."

Clee nodded, listening to Bell but staring at his sleeping daughter. At the mention of pain, Clee winced ever so slightly and squeezed House's hand a little harder subconsciously. Not having a child of his own, House couldn't imagine what it would feel like to know one's daughter was suffering, but if the pain he felt at seeing the anguish in Clee's eyes was any indication, he didn't envy his partner in the least.

House had seen such pain in the eyes of the parents of the children he'd been charged with diagnosing over the years, but in his Vicodin-fueled indifference he'd mocked them or questioned their motives. Sometimes he'd been right to question and sometimes he'd been too ignorant to show empathy, what little ability he'd had to empathize. With sobriety and therapy and the acceptance by friends, he'd learned to empathize a little more.

Bell finished her charting. House reached for the chart and she handed it to him before silently excusing herself from the room. Clee moved to the chair next to Jenny's bed and sat down while House stood next to him, going over the chart, reading the new entries and notations. Nothing had changed; Jenny was still suffering, growing weaker by the day; she was still dying. House hoped his faith in Wilson's abilities and knowledge would pay off in remission, but looking at the numbers he was forced to admit that they might already be too late.

He looked at the young girl, noting each feature that she had inherited from her father. She looked very small and very vulnerable. Clee held her hand with one of his while his other hand caressed her hair with a feather-light touch. There was no way House was going to let Marilyn and Paul take her away from Justin. If it took every scheme in the book to do it, he would make certain Clee had her for as long as she lived. Hopefully, she would end up outliving the both of them.

**Wednesday, August 5, 2010; 10:00 A.M.**

"Come in."

House opened the door and walked into Hutton's office. She was seated behind her desk but rose to her feet as soon as he was inside and shutting the door. She smoothly moved to an overstuffed armchair and House took his normal place in the identical chair opposite her. In the middle was a small round coffee table with a burning candle; Hutton and her candles.

"I haven't seen you for a few days," she said to him with a smile, leaning back into her seat. "Steph is a little disappointed you haven't been around to mock her second place finish at the fair."

"She was robbed," House replied. "It's been…"

"Busy," Hutton finished for him understandingly.

House nodded, sighing silently. "Marilyn and Paul tried to have Jenny discharged in the middle of the night. Bell caught them and called me."

"Is Jenny alright?" Hutton asked, alarmed.

"If you mean, did they succeed, then no, they didn't and she's fine; Justin's lawyer found a judge will to put an injunction into effect. Marilyn and Paul are forbidden from removing her from St. Luke's with the express consent of her primary physician. Trust me, Bell won't give approval anytime soon." House paused a beat. "Justin has his lawyer filing a suit for sole custody of Jenny."

"Wow," Hutton said. "How do you feel about that?"

"I'm fine with it," House told her, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt. "She's his daughter and he's definitely the best one to take care of her. It only makes sense."

"I didn't ask you if it was a logical thing for Justin to do," Hutton reminded him. "I asked you how you _felt _about that. You're intellectualizing again."

House rolled his eyes, shifted in his seat. "Justin loves Jenny; I…love Justin."

"Uh huh, but if Justin wins custody things are going to change a considerable amount in your lives. He'll have to spread himself between two people that he loves. You two won't have the same freedom that you have now. Are you prepared for that?"

House had been asking himself the exact same thing for days. He loved Justin. They would make it work.

"I want Justin to be happy," House told her. "As things are, if Jenny survives the cancer then her mother will drag her to California and do her best to keep Justin from having anything to do with her again. He'd be miserable. I won't stand in the way of his custody bid if it means that. Why are you looking at me like that? This is a good thing I'm doing. I'm putting the needs of my lover ahead of my own. I'm not being selfish. I would have thought you'd be pleased with my progress."

"I think it's wonderful for you to want Justin to be happy, to be willing to stand behind him in all of this, I really do," Hutton told him. "But I'm concerned as well."

"I don't…?" House was confused by the psychiatrist's reaction. Wasn't this what a person did for the people he loved? Sacrifice for their happiness, if necessary? Justin had brought him so much happiness. Wasn't making Justin happy the right thing to do?

"What about your happiness?" Hutton asked him gently. "You're happy with the way things are now. You've said before that you've never had any interest in having children of your own. If you and Justin continue this relationship and Justin wins custody of Jenny, you will, in effect, become a parental figure in Jenny's life—that is, unless you hide in your den whenever she's around and until she's in bed at night. Have you thought about what this could mean for your happiness in the long term?"

"Are you saying I can't be a parental figure in Jenny's life?" House demanded, becoming defensive. What the hell was she saying? That he wasn't good enough?

"No, House, that's not what I mean," Hutton responded, shaking her head. "I personally think you would make a great father, if that's what you really want to be. I've seen you around Stephania and David and despite your past insistence that they are pests, you certainly behave like you like having those pests hanging around. They've really taken to you. You treat them with a genuineness and respect a lot of adults don't. They've seen past the curmudgeon to the softy under the surface."

"Softy? I am _not_ a softy," House protested, but even he noticed the lack of conviction behind it.

"What I'm saying is, your happiness is just as important as Justin's is in your relationship," Hutton told him, ignoring his comment. "If you're not prepared for what having Jenny in Justin's life is going to mean, and you are unhappy, your relationship with Justin will suffer and you'll be taking a big step backward in your therapy. You'll be doing with Justin what you did with Wilson; settling on whatever he was willing to give to you because you didn't think you deserved any better. You risked your life to find a diagnosis for Wilson's girlfriend because you believed she made him happier than you ever could. Some would say that was noble, but I'd say it bordered on pathological."

"Justin is different from Wilson," House pointed out. "He would never ask me to risk my own life that way. He truly loves me."

Hutton nodded, smiling ruefully. "That's true, he does. The idea is still the same, though. Be honest with yourself and with Justin about how you feel about this and remember, you have a right to feel what you do. Your happiness is important, too. If that means Jenny joins Justin's and your life together permanently, then wonderful, go for it. Just don't make the mistake of telling Justin everything is okay if it's not. You'll only end up making the both of you miserable."

House heard what she was saying and understood what she meant. Up until that point he'd been certain that he was making the right decision. Now he wasn't quite so certain. Was he ready for this? Was this something he was willing to commit to for the long run? He loved Justin enough to make the sacrifice, but if he kept thinking of it in terms of being a sacrifice, was that a sign that he really didn't want Jenny to become a full-time part of Justin's life? Could he share Justin without growing to resent his daughter?

"I won't stand in the way of Justin being with his daughter," House told her again. "I don't want him to resent me for coming between him and Jenny."

"Okay," Hutton agreed, sitting forward and resting her elbows on her knees with her hands folded. "Just so long as you don't end up resenting him or Jenny. Just…think about it a little more and don't cut your happiness out of the equation. That's all I'm saying."

House nodded. She was right. Everything had happened so quickly with Jenny that he'd been reacting more than thinking. It wouldn't be fair to either Justin or him if he wasn't certain this was what he wanted too.

"I will," he told her simply.

Hutton smiled. "Good. Now, fill me in on everything else that's happened since our last session."

House sighed wearily. "I suggested to Justin that he should seek out the best oncologist I know, someone who specializes in cancers of the blood."

"You're talking about Wilson, aren't you?" she asked, her eyebrows rising in surprise. "Do you think that's a good idea?"

"For Jenny it is," House answered without hesitation. "Her condition is very serious. It might already be too late to stop the advance of her leukemia. The subtype of her AML is an especially acute, very aggressive one. When it's active, as it is in Jenny's case, any delay in treatment can mean a death sentence. Marilyn and Paul knew something wasn't right months ago but the morons didn't take her to her pediatrician until she started bleeding out from the simplest of injuries. Wilson has had a number of patients in Jenny's age bracket whose cancers have been more advanced than hers that he's successfully treated. I wouldn't have suggested Wilson if I didn't believe he was the most qualified to help her."

"What was Justin's reaction to your suggestion?"

"He agreed to it," House replied, his fingers beginning to strum the upholstered armrest. It was less than satisfying since it didn't make much noise at all. "I think he was more concerned about it being hard on me than feeling insecure. I know he doesn't relish the idea of being indebted to Wilson any more than I do, but I made it clear that it was up to him and that I would support him whatever he decided. He decided that he trusted my judgment."

Hutton nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answer. "Wilson is still in treatment, isn't he? Do you think he will even agree?"

"He already has," House informed her. "I don't think he would have done it as a favor to me, but after speaking with Justin personally, and taking a day to think about it, he agreed to consult. Wilson's a sucker for kids with cancer. Somehow Justin managed to get Marilyn's and Paul's approval, at least temporarily. Bell will be listed as her oncologist of record but Wilson and she will be working together on Jenny's case. He'll be consulting with her via Skype from Houston, so he doesn't have to leave therapy. One of the conditions Wilson placed on his agreement to do this was that I wasn't to have anything to do medically with Jenny's case and that he deals with Bell, not me."

"It makes sense," Hutton responded. "You're family, not physician in this situation. Plus, it prevents any hard feelings to get in the way of her treatment. I'm impressed that Wilson was willing to consult on his romantic rival's daughter's treatment and not insist that you be involved so that there would be more interaction between the two of you than necessary."

House shook his head. "There is no rivalry. Wilson doesn't have a chance. We're past that."

Hutton sat back in her seat and tapped her note pad with her pen as she thought. "Are you certain about that?"

"Absolutely," House told her without hesitation.

"So you no longer harbor any feelings for Wilson?"

A sigh escaped House, one of frustration and regret. "I will always…care about Wilson. Okay, a part of me will always love him but…I'm _in_ love with Justin, and he is the best thing ever to happen to me. Wilson and I are not good for each other. If there's one thing I've learned since last spring it's that love isn't enough for a relationship. The poets and songwriters are wrong. Respect and trust are just as, if not more, important."

"And Wilson? Do you think he still loves you?" she asked, scrutinizing House's body language and facial tics as much as his words.

"I know he does," was House's confident response. "He wouldn't be as adamant about my butting out if he didn't. He knows I've moved on and being in contact with me would only be painful for him. It doesn't matter."

"Good," Hutton told him, this time with a broader smile. "Last time we met we were talking about telling your mother about your relationship with Justin. Have you thought more about that?"

"I don't want to subject Justin to her," House replied. "I know that in her own way she loves me—but she would never understand my being in an intimate relationship with another man. I don't want to give her the opportunity to embarrass or hurt him."

"You don't think Justin could handle her disapproval?"

"I don't think he should have to," House replied, starting to tap his fingers again.

"Have you talked to Justin about it?" she asked, scribbling something in shorthand on her notepad.

"Not yet."

"Are you going to?"

House didn't answer immediately. He hadn't really thought much about it, but his gut reaction was that he didn't want to. It was a horrible time for his mother to decide that she wanted to come visit him in his new home and his new job. It was never a good time for her to visit, really. He loved Blythe—she was his mother, after all—but he harbored a great deal of resentment toward her. If she hadn't cheated on John House while he was deployed out of the country she wouldn't have become pregnant with another man's son, John would never have resented Greg as much as he did, knowing that Greg wasn't really his own child, and the abuse he'd inflicted upon Greg might never have happened. Greg had been a constant reminder to John that Blythe had been unfaithful. With his naturally violent personality, it was a recipe for a childhood of hell for Greg. Of course, if she hadn't dallied, Greg wouldn't have existed in the first place, but that was beside the point.

Also, he resented her for never standing up to John when the man would 'discipline' Greg using means that in the present day would be consider blatant child abuse. She had to have known what was going on. He understood that it had been the sixties and it wasn't easy for a woman in her position to just up and leave her husband with her child and raise him on her own but other women had done it and survived. Blythe wouldn't have had to be alone, either. She had her parents whom he knew had never approved of John. They would have been there to help her, and House had loved his grandparents, in particular his grandmother. Instead, Blythe obviously hadn't seen Greg's safety as being important enough to go to the bother.

"I don't think so."

"Does Justin even know that she wants to visit?" Hutton asked; her expression didn't hide her skepticism.

"Nope, and I don't intend to tell him," House informed her. "I've told him about Blythe, and John. He's told me about his father and siblings. I would never expect him to introduce me to his family, and I know he would never expect me to introduce him to Blythe. I'm not ashamed of my relationship with him; I don't give a damn what my mother thinks about my sexual preferences. I just refuse to let her cluck her tongue and sigh in disappointment around him, or make passing comments about how she'll never have a grandchild of her own like the other women she plays Bridge with."

"Do you think the time will never come when the two of them meeting will be unavoidable?"

"No," he admitted. "If and when that time comes Justin and I will deal with it. I won't go out of my way to make it happen."

Hutton nodded, making another notation. House watched her.

"Do I ever get to see what you've written down?" he asked her, feeling slightly annoyed about it but not certain why.

"Nope," she answered with a smile. "Do you show your patients their charts and the notations that have been made in them?"

"Most of my patients wouldn't be able to understand what's written in their charts," House quipped.

"Neat," Hutton replied playfully. "Same with mine. Especially those who think they know it all."

"Think?" House echoed, but there was amusement in his eyes.

Hutton shook her head at him, allowing herself to smile. "House, I'm wondering if a part of you—a small part perhaps—isn't afraid of your mother's disapproval of you being in a same-sex relationship with Justin. Hear me out before you tell me I'm stupid, okay? I know you're not ashamed of Justin, and I know that you want to protect him. But you told me that when you were with Stacy one of the first things you did when you moved in together was introduce her to your parents. You obviously felt it was safe enough for Stacy to do that. They wouldn't have disapproved of her immediately based solely on her gender. You say you don't care what your mother thinks about your sexual preferences. I'm wondering if you're certain about that. It's natural for a child to crave the approval of his or her parent, even if that parent was neglectful or abusive. Is it possible you don't want to tell her about your relationship with Justin in part—a very small part—because you not only don't want her to hurt him with her disapproval but you don't want to be hurt by it yourself?"

House didn't stop to contemplate her question because he didn't want to; in fact, he was tired of this entire topic and wanted to move on to something else.

"No. End of discussion," he told her, his voice hard. "Next topic."

Hutton slumped a little in her seat and sighed. "Okay, we'll table that topic for another time—"

"When hell freezes over," House finished for her. He began to rise from his chair, saying, "Well, this has been illuminating but I have a boyfriend to peel away from ICU and force to go home and get some sleep." He made for the door but only got a step towards it when her voice stopped him.

"Hold it right there, Flash! Justin can stay up a little past his bedtime because he's a big boy now. Get your ass in that seat and don't move it again until our fifty minutes are up or next time, I'll have Nolan fill in for me. Capish?"

"Yes, Godmother," House grumbled, returning to his chair. "Do I kiss your ring now?"

Before she could open her mouth again, House's pager went off. Hutton glared at him but he lifted his hands to indicate that he was innocent, that he hadn't paged himself just to get out of there. She didn't appear convinced but the fact was he hadn't. House checked his pager.

"Aw shucks! I have to go," he told Hutton with a dramatic sigh. "My patient is crashing."

With that he almost jumped out of the chair, grabbed his cane, and hurried out of Hutton's office.


	63. Chapter 63 Part 3 Ch 29

**Title: ****Resurrection**

**Author: **pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N: **This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

**Word Count: **

**Rating: M (NC-17)** for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Thursday, August 6, 2010; 1:02 P.M.**

House looked up from his computer when a knock sounded on his door and Clee then popped his head inside the office.

"I heard," he said soberly. "Can I come in?"

Nodding, House waved him in, closing his laptop and rubbing his tired eyes. He'd known that it would only be a matter of time before the surgeon showed up; he'd probably driven in to Philly with Hutton. Clee stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and then approached House's desk, pulling out a chair to sit down.

House rose from his chair, shaking his head. "No. Come here."

Clee smiled slightly, forsaking the chair and walking up to House; the diagnostician pulled him into an embrace, and Clee held him close.

"It's not your fault, Greg," Clee told him softly. "You did your best."

"My best wasn't good enough," House argued, relaxing into the arms of his lover. "She was dead by the time I got to her room. There was nothing I could do. The worst part is, I still don't know why. I'll find out at the autopsy…not the way I like to do it. I feel like a wuss right now."

"Why," Clee demanded, pushing away only enough to look House in the eyes, "because you were affected by the death of a patient?"

"I went for years not giving a damn," House explained.

"You were also numbed by the Vicodin you used to take," Clee countered, reminding him of something he remembered all too well. "You were hurting too much physically and emotionally to have the capacity to feel for your lost patients and their families. You're no longer being emotionally numbed by overuse of narcotics and you're healing psychologically, so I think you're reaction with this patient's death is normal and healthy—and doesn't make you a 'wuss.' I've had trouble dealing with the death of certain patients of mine, too. You have to shake it off, move on."

House smiled softly and kissed Clee tenderly on the mouth. "I know. Bell and Wilson have been in contact and have been going over Jenny's most recent labs. They want to meet jointly with you in my new office, today at two."

Clee's face lit up a little, despite the fact that the reason they were meeting was because his daughter had cancer. "You're office is ready?"

"Better be, if the official opening of the department is next week," House replied, his blue eyes sparkling with an excitement he wouldn't allow himself to express any other way. "I want to christen it before the official ceremonies, if you know what I mean." He wagged his eyebrows suggestively. "We have time before the meeting."

Clee chuckled ruefully, shaking his head. "Oh, that would be great! We have a Skype conference with Wilson all sweaty and flushed from fucking and he won't suspect a thing—or Dr. Bell for that matter. We need to work _peaceably_ with him, Greg. Throwing our relationship in his face in such a blatant manner? It…it would be incredibly insensitive and tacky."

Though he hated to admit it, House knew Clee was right. He didn't want to hurt Wilson anymore than he already had.

"Fine," House responded, pretending to pout. "But can we at least neck for a while? I really want you, Justin. If I don't get some kind of release before the meeting, I won't want to leave your side when two o'clock rolls around."

"You're not going to be there with me?" Clee asked, not hiding his disappointment very well.

"Wilson doesn't want me involved, remember?" House answered with another question.

"He doesn't want you to interfere with the _medicine_," Clee insisted, "but he has no say as far as being there as family."

"Technically I'm not family," House reminded him. It wasn't that he didn't want to be there for his partner, even though seeing Wilson again would be difficult for him. The fact was, he didn't have any legal right to be there. Bell had been compelled to notify Marilyn and Paul about the meeting and they were planning on attending, as was their right. Knowing Marilyn, she would likely protest House's presence at the meeting just to hurt Clee and cause trouble. She didn't seem to be happy unless she was being a total bitch.

"You're my partner," Clee told him, placing his hand under House's chin and lifting it slightly so the older man would look him in the eye. "I love you and I want you there with me. If I win the custody suit, you'll be a big part of Jenny's life. You belong there. Okay?"

House shifted uncomfortably on his feet. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't help but feel uncomfortable at the idea of being a parental figure for Jenny. It was so important to Clee, he knew, but Hutton's words from their last interrupted session still echoed in his head. Was this what he wanted, or was he only doing this to make Clee happy? If he was, then could he live with that? If he couldn't, what did that mean for Clee and him as a couple? He would never suggest that Clee abandon the fight to be rewarded sole custody of Jenny, not after getting to know the child's mother and stepfather and seeing just how much that little girl meant to Justin. If anyone was going to be abandoned at this point should Clee be expected to make a choice, House knew it would be him.

The last thing he wanted was to lose Clee, but could he live a lie and not be caught, not engender resentment that would tear Clee and him apart anyway?

_Damn you, Hutton!_ House thought angrily; it wasn't fair, though, to blame her, he knew. She had simply pointed out a consideration that he had to make for all their sakes. Why couldn't life be simple for once? Why was there always grist in the gears?

"Greg?" Clee said questioningly, drawing House out of his thoughts. "Are you okay?"

Meeting his lover's gaze, House nodded. "Yes, fine. If you want me there, I'll be there."

Clee grinned and then leaned in and kissed House before murmuring, "Thank you. I love you, Greg."

"Me, too," House told him with as much feeling as he could muster. He _did_ love Clee—he just wasn't certain he loved the idea of sharing him with Jenny.

**~h/w~**

House's office was large—not outrageously so, but a lot bigger than the shoebox he was currently in. It was bigger than his office at PPTH had been. There was also an outer office for an assistant and small waiting area that reminded House of Cuddy's outer office, only nicer. House had managed to hire Kirkland away from HR and now he had a decent office to work in instead of a small alcove along the side of a busy corridor.

House's style was very masculine and pragmatic. The colors he chose were neutral but deep and rich: deep browns and neutral greens with ecru to keep the room from looking like a cave. Clee had offered suggestions but House had chosen what he liked. His desk was large, made of chestnut, stained dark, the seats in the room dark chocolate leather including a sofa that was long and padded enough to serve as a place for House to lie down and elevate his leg when necessary (not for naps, oh no). On one wall was a fifty-inch flatscreen smart TV for video conferencing, diagnostic sessions with his team, and watching his soaps power-point teaching. Built in bookshelves were still empty but soon enough would be filled with House's impressive medical library and personal items (like his phrenology skull, his organ models, and so forth). On his desk, as always, would be his oversized tennis ball. He could never be expected to focus on a case without it. The wall behind his desk was dominated by windows. One affectation that was a result of Clee's influence was the presence of potted trees in two corners and a philodendron on the end table next to the sofa. House had teased him when he'd suggested it as being too gay but apparently the diagnostician had gone with the idea after all, and he had to admit that it looked good.

They were still alone for a while; the others would arrive closer to two. House didn't like the idea of Marilyn and Paul stinking up his new office but there wasn't much he could do about it, really. He didn't want to make things more difficult for Clee than they already were.

"The last time I was here they were still mudding the drywall," Clee commented, smiling appreciatively. "It looks wonderful."

"And it's bigger than yours," House taunted, a gleam in his eye.

Clee grinned and began to push House backward toward the sofa. "That's the only thing you have that's bigger than mine."

"Are you sure about that?" House asked, squinting as if trying to recall something from memory. "Wasn't it just last week that you were thanking the gods that I was hung like a horse?"

"I don't remember saying anything about a horse," Clee responded before gently pushing House back onto the sofa and then straddling him, sitting with most of his weight on House's left thigh. "Are you certain I didn't say 'a hare' instead?"

"Oh," House insisted, holding Clee's face in his hands, "I'm certain you said horse. If you want, we can settle the issue right now and have a look at Exhibit A. I just happen to have it with me—I take it everywhere I go."

House pulled Clee in for a kiss. When they parted, Clee murmured, "You did remember to lock the door behind you, right?"

"Why?" House teased, kissing along his partner's jawline. "I thought you said it would be tacky if we had sex just before the meeting."

"I don't recall using the word tacky," Clee replied, grinning, his hands braced against the back of the sofa as he bared more of his neck to House.

"Mm," House hummed against his skin, "you're…having trouble…recalling a lot…of things. Early on-set dementia?"

"No," Clee responded, "just the blood flowing to my non-thinking head right now." He pulled House into a passionate kiss. House smiled victoriously against his mouth.

The sound of someone clearing his throat poured ice water on their fire. Both looked up to see Kirkland standing in the doorway with Marilyn visible behind him. The PA's face was beat red and he averted his eyes to the floor.

"I thought you said you'd locked the door," Clee whispered.

House looked back at Clee and shrugged. "I don't recall ever saying that." He turned to look at Kirkland again. "What have I told you about knocking _before_ opening the door?"

"I'm s-sorry, Dr. House, uh, Dr. Clee," Kirkland stammered. "I didn't realize you were here yet and, well, the door was unlocked…"

Rolling his eyes, House grabbed Clee to stay him when the younger man tried to crawl off. To Kirkland he said, "Well, we're busy. My office isn't open for business until two o'clock. Shut and lock the door behind you. Tell Marilyn that unless she's here to tell us that something has changed in Jenny's status, she can park that wide load of hers in one of those chairs out there and wait."

Kirkland didn't have a chance to do as he was told because Marilyn was already pushing past him and barging into the office. She held an envelope in her hand, which she was waving about angrily.

"Get off of him, Justin!" she snapped. She gestured with the envelope. "What the hell is this? You were serious when you said you were suing for sole custody?"

Clee tried to crawl off of House's lap but House refused to release his hold on him until Clee gave him The Look. Reluctantly, House let him go, and Clee sat down next to House on the sofa.

"Dead serious," the surgeon replied. "When you started putting Paul's job status and money ahead of Jenny's health you no longer remained worthy of having custody of her."

"You should talk," she shot back, glaring openly at House. "She's lying in a sick-bed right now and you're here about to bone your boyfriend."

House bristled; he wasn't about to let her guilt-trip Clee. Clee noticed House's reaction and gently took his hand to stay him.

"Marilyn, when I left her room less than half-an-hour ago, she was sound asleep," Clee told her, his voice dangerously soft and calm. "I've spent most of my days and nights with her. I adore Jenny and I would never neglect her. I love Greg, too, and I _have_ been neglecting him. I haven't put him ahead of Jenny's health and well-being. That's the difference between us."

"I can't keep you from meeting with Dr. Wilson," House chimed in, "but I sure as hell don't have to let you do it here. You want to sit in today, you shut up and keep your idiocy to yourself."

"I've been checking up on you," Marilyn told House, scowling. "I know you're a junkie and a lunatic who spent time in a mental hospital not once but twice in the past two and a half years. As long as Justin is dating someone like you there is no judge insane enough to grant him custody of a ten-year-old girl. So really, I have nothing to worry about. I'm not going to lose Jenny so long as Justin is fucking you."

"That's enough, Marilyn!" Clee shouted, rising from the sofa and marching up to her; he towered over the woman. "I won't let you stand there and insult Greg. He's a _recovering_ addict receiving regular therapy, which shows responsibility and character, two things you lack. I'll arrange with Dr. Wilson for him to meet with you on another occasion, because I will not put up with you for one more minute. You have anything more to say to either one of us—" He nodded at House at that point. "—You do it through my lawyer. Now get out!"

Marilyn opened her mouth to respond but then closed it again and stalked out of the office, muttering under her breath. She slammed the door behind her.

"Kirkland!" House bellowed. A couple of seconds later the PA opened the door and stuck his head in, looking nervous.

"Yes, Dr. House?"

"If she comes back and steps foot into the outer office, call security and have her escorted out," the diagnostician told him sternly.

Kirkland nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Oh, and lock the door."

"Yes, Doctor," the PA answered, disappearing and doing as he was told.

Clee, who'd been staring at the door, now turned to face House again. "I'm sorry, Greg. She had no right—"

"She's right," House said, interrupting him. That was the worst part, House knew. His past was a mess, and it would have an impact on the custody case. "I'm going to damage your chances of winning custody of Jenny. I can't erase what I've done in my past, and a judge would have to be insane to trust me as a parental figure in her life."

"But you just said it yourself!" Clee argued, approaching House and sitting down beside him again. "That's the past—that's not who you are now!"

House shook his head, sighed. "People don't change, Justin. I've learned some skills, made some minor changes in my lifestyle choices, but at the core of me I'm still the same bastard that did all of the shit I did in the past. Something unforeseen could happen which could send me right back to the drugs and booze and self-destructive behaviors. If I was with you and Jenny at the time it could put both of you in jeopardy. It would certainly have a negative influence on Jenny. I can promise you that it won't happen, but I'd just be lying because it might."

"You're getting better," Clee insisted.

"But I'll never be cured," House argued. "You need to be prepared for Marilyn and Paul to use my past against you, and a good lawyer will make it work."

Clee reached out and cupped House's cheek. "What are you saying? Are you saying I should give up on my custody suit?"

House grasped Clee's hand and gently pulled it away from his face. He continued to hold it in his own. "I'm saying you may have to give up on me if you have a hope of gaining custody of your daughter. I won't allow myself to get in the way of that—I won't be the reason you lose the suit and Marilyn succeeds in killing the girl by moving her away. You'd never forgive me if that happened and it would destroy our relationship."

"I have no intention of allowing this to come between us," Clee assured him. "I love you, Greg, and Marilyn is wrong. A judge would look at all of the hard work and changes in your lifestyle and take that into consideration. Parents are human—we're not perfect. What the court will look for is where you're at now, and Baby, you've come a long, long way."

Before House could respond to that Clee pulled him into an embrace. House allowed himself to be hugged, but it changed nothing. Marilyn's words echoed in House's head like the sound of nails being pounded into the lid of the coffin holding his relationship with Clee. It was only a matter of time, now, House knew, before he would end up all alone—again.

**Thursday, August 6, 2010; 2:00 P.M.**

Dr. James Wilson appeared on the flatscreen in House's new office. Bell had joined House and Clee, but Marilyn had kept away which had been a relief to all.

"Hello, Dr. Wilson," Bell said when his image, transmitted via Skype from Houston, materialized. "Marilyn will not be joining us today; arrangements will be made to meet with her and her husband in the near future, if that's alright with you."

"Of course," Wilson agreed with a nod. House noticed that he was looking healthier than just the other day. Far from being overweight, Wilson had put on a healthy amount of weight; he'd been nearly skeletal at the worst of his drinking. The deep creases around his mouth and eyes had softened and he appeared to be much calmer, changes from just a couple of days before. It was a relief for House, who had been shaken to see how far Wilson had fallen with his alcoholism. Wilson had always been the sensible, sober one House had depended upon to keep him from completely spinning out of control so watching Wilson unravel and lose control had been tremendously alarming to him.

"Hey, Wilson," House said in greeting.

"How are you doing, House, Justin?" Wilson said in turn.

Clee reached over and gently clasped House's hand. "We're doing okay. You?"

"I'm doing well," Wilson replied with a pleasant smile that House knew was a little forced. "Dr. Bell and I have been in contact back and forth concerning Jenny and we've agreed upon her treatment plan based on where she is right now with her disease. I'd like to discuss the extent of her illness with you before presenting you with my recommendations for treating her."

"We're with you," Clee assured him. House kept quiet; he'd promised not to interfere in the treatment process and intended to keep that promise. Wilson truly was one of the best oncologists in the country, in House's opinion, and he had no qualms about trusting him with Jenny's case.

"Dr. Bell sent me the results of Jenny's most recent labs and I've viewed the radiological scans done," Wilson went on, opening a file folder in front of him containing copies of information faxed or couriered to him at Silver Springs. Here's where we're at. Jenny's leukemia is progressing very quickly. As I mentioned previously, she has a particularly aggressive form of AML. Our initial belief that she was early stage three was too optimistic, I'm afraid; she's advanced beyond that at this point. Because her general health is fragile, my recommendation is that we begin a moderate course of chemotherapy consisting of 2 cycles of induction therapy with infusions of daunomycin, cytosine arabinoside, etoposide, what we call ADE therapy before even considering anything more aggressive; if we hit her too hard in the healh she is in, the side-effects of the drugs alone may end up killing her before her leukemia could. Because we've detected metastasis to the cerebral spinal fluid, an MRI of her head and spine was conducted; a three-centimeter chloroma was discovered in her cervical spinal column. Intrathecal injections will be in order as well as directed radiotherapy focusing on the chloroma. Depending upon the results of the induction phase, ALLO stem cell transplantation might be necessary. Justin, does Jenny have any siblings? They would be the best candidates to test for donor compatibility."

"No," Clee answered, visibly worried, "Jenny is an only child. She does have cousins on both Marilyn's and my side."

"Full siblings would be better, but it still would be a good idea if you could arrange to have all family members including aunts, uncles, and cousins submit samples for typing and cross-matching," Wilson told him. "Dr. Bell has already had Jenny placed on the non-related donor registry as well. All we can do now is wait to see if an appropriate match can be made. I'll warn you now, the chances of inducing a remission in this initial phase is very low, perhaps ten percent at best. Her best chance will be found in stem cell transplantation. What Bell and I want to focus on is to substantially lower the abnormal cell count as much as possible, treat her for symptoms and prevent any kind of infection from forming. By doing so we hope to improve her odds of surviving the transplant and accepting the donor cells."

Clee nodded. House didn't like the way his partner had paled upon receiving news that Jenny's cancer was worse than they had expected.

"Wilson, what is her prognosis, realistically?" House asked. He had a pretty good idea himself, but Wilson was the expert in the field, not him.

Meeting House's gaze Wilson gave him a grim look that most people would miss but which House picked up on loud and clear thanks to knowing Wilson for as long and as well as he had. It was not the expression House had hoped to see.

"It all really depends on how well Jenny responds to the chemotherapy," Wilson answered, trying to sound reasonably optimistic. "Her subtype usually responds quite well to ADE therapy and our hope is that chemo combined with directed radiotherapy will reduce the size of her chloroma and make it easier to surgically remove. We're aiming for remission after the induction phase but we're prepared to proceed to transplantation in the post-induction phase. If we are able to induce remission after the initial two cycles, followed up by standard post-induction therapy, her five-year survival odds could be as high as eighty to ninety percent."

"And if remission isn't induced?" Clee asked softly, his grip on House's hand tightening.

Wilson hesitated less than a heartbeat but long enough for House to notice. "If we need to perform additional chemo cycles before we can proceed to transplantation, her risk of organ system failures from the chemo greatly increases, as does the chance of infection or hemorrhage from thrombocytopenia. A delay in transplantation could cost her dearly. I would estimate—and remember, this is just estimation at this point because there are a lot of factors involved—I would estimate that her five-year odds would be no more than twenty percent. I wish I had better news, but by the time she was actually diagnosed and entered into treatment the leukemia was already quite advanced. If she had been diagnosed sooner, her odds would be greater. Since we can't go back in time, we have to work where we're at now to the best of our abilities and medical technology."

"Complications of the leukemia and from the chemo and radio therapies themselves pose a considerable risk to her survival," Bell added grimly. "She could contract an infection like Staph or a Strep strain that could, with her lowered immunity, become unmanageable and end up killing her. The common cold could be devastating to her; that's why once we begin chemo she's going to be moved to a clean room and visitation will be limited to immediate family only. The chemo drugs could very likely destroy platelets as well as red blood cells. If her platelet count becomes too low she could spontaneously hemorrhage into her brain or other vital organs. Chemo will likely cause hemolysis that will compound her low red blood cell count due to the leukemia itself, and the resulting anemia may weaken her and reduce the effectiveness of her treatments. We'll be carefully watching her cell counts and transfuse where necessary but it still could pose a real danger. So far we haven't seen any additional metastases but they could spring up and complicate things as well, especially metastases to the brain, heart or kidneys. What we need to do now is focus on what we can do therapy-wise, keep a close watch on her and then reevaluate after the initial two cycles, which, if you approve this recommendation, will begin immediately."

Clee appeared to be overwhelmed with the information; being a doctor himself only made it worse because he knew better than the average parent how serious the situation was and how real the risks were. He swallowed hard and looked at House, seeking his opinion. House was uncomfortable with that. Jenny wasn't his child and he didn't want to overly influence Clee's decision-making should what he recommended not pan out the way they hoped.

"What do you think?" Clee murmured, his eyes searching House's imploringly.

"It's your decision," House answered. "Yours and Marilyn's."

"Yes," Clee agreed, "but I trust your instincts, Greg. What is your gut telling you?"

House sighed and had to fight the urge to roll his eyes; there was that 'gut' thing again. He wished Clee didn't trust him quite so much.

"If Jenny were my daughter," House answered carefully, "I would proceed with Wilson's treatment plan, with the understanding that there are a lot of variables that can't be foreseen or controlled."

Clee sighed heavily, and then squeezed House's hand again before looking back at the screen.

"Let's get started," he told Wilson with a nod. "I'll get a hold of Marilyn and all consent forms will be signed a.s.a.p. Thank you, Dr. Wilson, Dr. Bell."

"Let's hope for the best," Wilson agreed.

"I'll go find Marilyn now," Clee told House, placing a kiss on his forehead before getting up and hurrying from the office.

"I'll get things rolling here and be in contact with you once we begin her first treatment, Dr. Wilson," Bell told him before gathering up her file and following Clee out of the room.

Before Wilson could close the connection from his end, House spoke up.

"Now that we're alone, I want to know what you really think Jenny's chances are, Wilson," he told the oncologist. "I've known you long enough to know when you're hedging."

Wilson sighed and nodded, smiling ruefully. "Honestly, House…okay, this is off the record, alright?"

"When have I ever cared about the record?" House retorted, smirking in spite of the anxiety he felt.

"Her chances, in my opinion, are, at this stage, really shitty," Wilson admitted with a heavy-hearted sigh. "In my experience, I haven't had a juvenile AML patient as advanced as her survive the therapy itself to completion. You wanted the truth—well, that's the truth. You can't tell me you haven't seen her labs and films before this; I know you better than that. I'm impressed with the effort you're putting into not interfering medically, but I don't for a moment think you aren't getting up to the minute reports from Bell. You're brilliant enough to know where the situation is. I also know you have no intention of telling Justin just how bad her condition really is if you can have someone else tell him for you."

"Well," House shrugged, repressing a smile, "you know what often happens to the bearers of bad news." He paused a beat. "How long does Jenny have, Wilson?"

"I'm not giving up on her," Wilson asserted. "It doesn't look good, but every patient responds to treatment differently for the same disease. She could surprise me and prove me a liar."

"Wilson."

"I'll be surprised if she makes it a year," Wilson admitted, coming clean. "I'm thinking more like four to six months. I really hope I'm wrong, House."

House nodded, knowing that he meant it; he could tell that Wilson was already getting attached to Jenny, and to his knowledge Wilson had only visited twice with her over Skype. That was Wilson, for good or for bad. It was what made him as good a doctor as he was, but it was also tremendously hard on him when a child like Jenny simply couldn't be saved.

"Me, too," House said dourly. "Losing Jenny will kill Justin."

Wilson nodded with understanding. "It won't be easy, but at least he'll have you there for support."

"Support is not something I've ever been very good at." House exhaled heavily, his body automatically trying to relieve some of the stress he was under. "But I'll try."

"I know you will," Wilson said gently, offering him a small but genuine smile. "You were always supportive of me after my marriages crashed. Your methods were unusual, to say the least, but you always helped me get through it. You'll be able to do the same for Justin."

"You're not getting sentimental on me, are you?" House asked him, this time allowing a smile to touch his lips briefly.

"I would never think of it," Wilson threw back with a knowing look. There was moment of comfortable silence between them, something that hadn't occurred in a very long time. "How are you holding up in all of this, House? You look tired."

"You know me," House deflected. "I'm fine."

"Fine, huh?" Wilson echoed, his eyes narrowing slightly. "With you, fine usually means not so fine. How's your pain management regimen going?"

House had forgotten just how well Wilson could read him, though how he could have forgotten, he wasn't certain. "Well. Most days my pain is about a one or a two. At first there was a considerable amount of breakthrough pain but an increase in gabapentin has virtually eliminated that now. Very few episodes anymore."

"Good," Wilson responded, looking pleased. "How's it going with your shrink—Hutton's her name, right?"

"Right," House agreed. "I have my good sessions and then there are the rest. As of this moment, I'm reasonably sane. No guarantees on tomorrow, though if you talk to my team, there's probably some kind of pool going."

Wilson chuckled at that.

"What about you?" House asked, turning the attention away from him and directing it at Wilson. "You're looking not quite so emaciated."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Wilson responded, drolly. "Like you said, today is a good day. Yesterday was fucked up. I wake up every morning jonesing for a drink, think about it at least once an hour while I'm awake and dream about it while I'm asleep—but I'm enjoying being able to think clearly again. I hate Process Group, fell asleep during Relaxation Therapy and cleaned up in the last poker tourney—too bad I don't smoke. I've already decided that once I'm released from here I'm going to enter Sober Living."

"That's one of those halfway-house living communities, right?" House asked, having been listening intently to him. "Nolan was going to send me to one of those if you hadn't agreed to let me move in with you."

"Yeah," Wilson agreed. "I don't have anyone to move in with, currently, and I don't trust myself living alone yet. I'll get there, just not right away. I can stay at this particular residence for up to a year. Hopefully by then I'll be ready for independence."

"What do you plan on doing then?" House asked, impressed with what he was hearing. This wasn't the same Wilson he had been even a month ago; this version was more at peace and viewing his limitations more realistically in spite of still having strong cravings for alcohol. House knew that the cravings weakened over time, but they never disappeared completely; such was the nature of the chronic disease.

Wilson shrugged. "Don't know yet. I'm trying not too plan too far ahead and end up fretting about the future; I'm trying to focus on the present right now, and on what I have to do to make it to the next day sober and sane. I'll work at some manual labor or service job while in Sober Living while keeping up on the literature, and then when I'm on my own I'll probably look for a position at some hospital, probably in Oncology, although I've been considering training in Hematology. It might be a positive change for me."

House smiled. "Fewer bald-headed kiddies and a better success rate?"

"It wouldn't be such a bad thing," Wilson admitted.

"Not at all," House agreed with a nod.

They stared at each other for a long moment, something else they hadn't done in a while. House couldn't help but have stirrings; he'd been in love with Wilson for a long time, and those feeling didn't just disappear in a matter of months or a year. Sometimes they never went away entirely. In Wilson's eyes he saw love staring back at him, but also acceptance of the situation as it now was.

"Well, I have a session coming up in a few minutes," Wilson said somewhat reluctantly, breaking the silence. "It's been good…talking to you again. I'm glad everything is working out for you as well as it is, House. You were long overdue. I'll talk with Justin and you again next week if nothing unforeseen occurs between now and then."

"You will," House confirmed, swallowing back a lump that had no business being in his throat. "Bye, Wilson."

"Bye, House."

The transmission ended and House turned off the screen. He hadn't had the heart to tell Wilson that everything good he thought he had finally achieved was on the verge of crumbling to pieces around him. That was his problem, not Wilson's. He sighed, resting his head back against the sofa and closing his eyes, hoping that if everything he saw disappeared, so would his impending woes.

**Thursday, August 6, 2010; 2:34 P.M.**

Wilson pushed back from the desk in the administration office and relaxed in his seat, exhaling stress from his body. He looked at the medical file lying open on the desk next to the computer and mentally shook his head. The girl didn't have a chance, and wishful thinking wouldn't change that. Her mother and stepfather had neglectfully ignored symptoms and signs that something was seriously wrong with Jenny until her young body could no longer compensate and collapsed. Had they responded even three months sooner, it would be an entirely different situation.

He had wanted to tell House that he and Justin should start making arrangements for palliative care but hadn't had the heart. They would do everything at their disposal and not give up until Jenny's body did, but it would take nothing short of a miracle to reverse the cancer quickly claiming her. It was a senseless waste, and it infuriated him.

As frustrating as watching a child needlessly die was for Wilson, it was also so good to feel useful and needed again, to use his skills and knowledge productively and to be able to think clearly enough to do so. He couldn't save Jenny, but he could help Bell give her a bit more time with her family, keep her pain under control and provide her with comfort until the end. It wasn't enough, but it was something, and it was the most productive thing he'd done in a long time.

No, he wasn't ready to go back to work yet—it would be a while before that was the case—and like he told House, he was leaning toward training in a different specialty rather than returning to oncology, but this was turning out to be good for him so long as he could keep himself from becoming too attached to that little girl half a country away.

Wilson had thought he would have difficulty finding empathy for Jenny because she was Clee's daughter—Clee, the man who House was in love with, living with, and planning to spend the rest of his life with. Wilson couldn't deny he was still in love with House. It hurt to see him with someone else; to know that not only couldn't they be together but the friendship they had once shared was now over, too. Yet, none of that had prevented him from being able to empathize with Jenny and invest in her well-being.

And, damn it—he liked Clee. He wished he didn't, but he did. It was ridiculous but true. They could never be friends, though; not as long as Wilson still loved House, and he'd already resigned himself to the fact that he would never fall out of love with him. Regardless, he had to do his best to let go.

_Yeah, right,_ Wilson mused sadly. _Piece of cake._

With a shake of his head, Wilson rose from his seat and left the office, heading back to his room for a while before his next therapy session began.

**Thursday, August 6, 2010; 9:20 P.M.**

House stepped into his house and turned on a light. He walked slowly inside, thoroughly exhausted, and shut and locked the door behind him. He set the keys to his car onto the small table by the door, hung up his jacket, set his backpack down by the door, and then limped toward the kitchen, leaning heavily on his cane.

He'd left Clee at St. Luke's after failing to convince him to come home and get a decent night's sleep. Jenny would be sleeping through the night anyway, so she wouldn't notice that her father wasn't sitting vigil at her bedside; Clee would have nothing of it, insisting that he would be fine sleeping in the recliner in her room while Marilyn sat in another chair in the room reading and casting him death glares. Paul had flown to LA without Marilyn and Jenny to set up house because he had to begin his new job on Monday. Marilyn's resentment at having to stay behind due to the injunction was almost tangible in the space around her. At the end of the day, House simply hadn't had it in him to put up with her any longer. He'd sat with Clee for a while, taught Jenny how to play Texas Hold'em (the kid was a fast learner and with a little practice would be quite the card shark.

She would never see the day where she could clean up in Vegas, though; Wilson had pretty much confirmed that for him. House didn't know if he should be upfront with Clee about the truth or say nothing and allow him to live in hope until the truth couldn't be denied any longer.

Opening the refrigerator, House pulled out the carton of milk and took it to the counter. He located a glass in the cabinet and then stopped himself. When had he been domesticated to the point where even when he was alone he drank from a glass rather than straight from the carton? Shrugging, House put the glass back and then took a few gulps from the milk carton before replacing it in the fridge. Thank God Clee didn't care much about where the milk was placed, be it the shelf or the door. House debated whether or not to make a sandwich or to forego food and go straight to bed. Deciding that he wasn't all that hungry, House headed for the bedroom.

He got ready for bed, pulling on a t-shirt and pajama pants before crawling beneath the covers and turning off the light. The bed seemed so empty and cold without the warmth of Clee's body next to his and the space in the bed he would occupy had he been there. House had spent many years without a bed partner and had been fine with it—well, perhaps not _fine_, but he'd grown accustomed to it—but he'd gotten used to sharing his bed with Clee. It felt wrong for him not to be there. It wasn't just that his partner wasn't there to make love with him; House missed holding and being held, and talking softly in the dark until they both were too sleepy to continue, at which time they would almost always fall asleep in each other's arms. Now House felt lonely for the first time in months, and wasn't certain he'd be able to fall asleep.

If House ended up losing Clee due to his custody battle with Marilyn, how would he ever get used to this loneliness again? He feared it enough that he almost hoped that, if Jenny was going to die anyway, that she would die sooner than later. He didn't want his lover to suffer that kind of heartache, but if it was inevitable, he'd rather it happen before Clee was forced to end their relationship in order to win the custody suit. Perhaps that way, House wouldn't lose him after all.

It had torn House's heart in half when Wilson had pushed him away; he would end up in pieces for certain if he lost Clee. However, just as he was willing to let Wilson go for the other man's best interest, likewise was he willing to release Clee if it came down to whether or not Jenny's custody would be granted to him. If he didn't, then the resentment that Clee would feel toward House when he lost custody would end up tearing them apart anyway.

It took hours for House to fall asleep, and his dreams were sad ones.


	64. Chapter 64 Part 3 Ch 30

**Title:** **Resurrection**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer**: House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N**: This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler** **Alert**: This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

Word Count:

**Rating**: **M (NC-17) **for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Monday, August 10, 2010; 7:13 A.M.**

House answered the phone on the second ring, expecting the person on the other end to be one of his team members calling to tell him that his most recent patient crashed. He grumbled about the caller having the decency to wait to call for another 17 minutes when he had to get up anyway.

"House," he mumbled into the mouthpiece.

"It's Foreman, House," came the familiar baritone over the line.

House rubbed his face with his hand, an eyebrow arching curiously. "What year is this? Because I was under the impression that you didn't work for me anymore."

"Yeah, yeah," the neurologist said and House could picture him rolling his eyes. "Look, I'm calling as a favor to Dr. Cuddy."

Yawning, House replied, "What could she possibly want from me?"

"She's dying."

"Tell me something I don't know." House pushed off the comforter covering him and slowly eased himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, his feet coming to rest on the sheepskin Clee had placed there.

"House, she won't make it to the end of the day," Foreman announced grimly. "I'm calling because she doesn't have anyone else."

"Lucas, her mother, her sister Julia—"

"Lucas is on the run from the cops, and apparently Julia and her family treated her mother to a cruise and they won't be back until Friday. They have Rachel with them," Foreman explained, sighing. "They don't seem too concerned about making it back, either. Look, she wants to talk to you before she dies. I know you two aren't friends anymore but…House, she's dying alone. Nobody deserves to die alone."

"We all die alone," House muttered before sighing. Of course, he would go. Despite all of the shit between them the past couple of years, they had been friends once, and he still cared about her. Much of what she had done she hadn't been responsible for because of the tumor's influence. "Look, I've got a case right now. I'll rally the troops and work something out."

"So you're coming?" Foreman asked hopefully.

Yeah, he was going. "I'll be there by eleven. See if you can keep her from croaking before then." House hung up without a farewell. Lisa Cuddy was dying—today. He wasn't certain how he felt about that. For her sake, it was a blessing, really. Brain cancer was no picnic. The fact that she wouldn't get to see her daughter one last time grated against him. He'd never thought of Cuddy being isolated to the extent that there would be no one there at her deathbed for her. Even before his move to Philly, at least he would have had Wilson there for him.

He picked up the phone again and dialed Chase.

**Monday, August 10, 2010; 10:45 A.M.**

House stood outside the main entrance to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, reluctant to walk through the doors into the main lobby. This was his old life, which he had decide to and worked toward leaving behind. Revisiting it reminded him of how many years of his life he'd wasted wallowing in self-pity, pain, fear, and addiction. Add to that the loneliness of that time, and it was no wonder he had a nearly overwhelming urge to turn around, return to his car, and go home.

He knew he could face this, or at least that's what he kept telling himself as he opened the door and walked through. The first thing he noticed that had changed in just a matter of weeks was that the free clinic was gone. Obviously the board and new management decided to cut their profit losses due to his victorious lawsuit by cutting 'non-essential', non-profit services. In its place Human Resources had moved in, likely so that its former location could be turned into something much more profitable and most likely research-based. He mentally shook his head. The clinic had been Cuddy's baby, her pride and joy, and they hadn't even waited until she was in the cold, hard ground before eliminating it. He wondered if she even knew, and hoped that she didn't.

Standing at the reception desk was Foreman, dressed impeccably in a grey three-piece suit, stiff white dress shirt, and lilac tie. He was wearing expensive Italian leather dress shoes. He was looking in House's direction. House limped up to him.

"Thanks for coming House," Foreman told him with the slightest hint of a smile.

"They made you Dean," was House's greeting.

"Temporarily," Foreman agreed, nodding. "The board decided to shut down Diagnostics. I'd decided to leave PPTH but when they offered me the interim position, of course I accepted. I'm hoping to prove to them that I'm up to snuff and thus convince them to offer me the job permanently."

"And let me guess," House said, his voice cold. "You decided a good way to impress them would be to close the clinic and put the added square footage in the hospital to more profitable use."

"They had already decided to close the clinic," Foreman defended. "I just managed to score the top pediatric heart surgeon in the country to come to PPTH and establish a department of Pediatric Cardiology here. It wasn't easy, but let's just say I made him an offer he couldn't refuse."

"Mistress? Gambling debts? Drug addiction?" House asked knowingly, walking with the interim Dean to the elevators. Foreman pressed the Up call button.

"Bestiality," Foreman replied, lowering his voice.

"Eww." House's face twisted in disgust for a brief moment. "A warning will have to be put out across Princeton to keep their pets indoors at night."

"My PI reported that he's an elder of his church and he was arrested once for an incident involving a sheep."

House looked at him, a smile crossing his lips. "Were there pictures?"

"It cost extra to get a hold of them; I won't be going to Cancun this year."

"Atta boy, I taught you well." The elevator arrived and two nurses stepped off before House and Foreman stepped on. "However, I'll have to give you only a B for not finding a way to get the hospital to foot the bill. Still, admirable effort."

"You're not making me feel better about this," Foreman told him with a frown, but House knew that was mostly for show. Deep down Foreman could be very Machiavellian all on his own. "The money and prestige he brings will top anything your name did, no offense."

"None taken,' House told him as they stepped onto the empty elevator car. "Sad, pathetic-looking sick kiddies trumps internationally renowned genius in the eyes of the ignorant masses every time."

Foreman scoffed silently at that. "Still nothing wrong with your ego. I've heard chatter about your new position and the department St. Luke's built just for you. Word has it you've met your match when it comes to the chief administrator there. You're actually behaving yourself, for the most part. What does he have on you?"

"He has pictures of my boyfriend and I having sex in a cast room," House quipped. "Apparently he blew his vacation fund on them."

"No, seriously."

House looked Foreman square in the eyes. "He respects my expertise and doesn't micromanage every little decision I make. He shows me respect and in return he gets the same."

"Obviously he doesn't know about how you practice medicine," Foreman retorted, challengingly.

This amused House as much as it did irritate him. "He knows exactly how I practice medicine. Because he doesn't interfere and make it twice as hard to do my job as it should, I defer to his suggestions and requests on the rare occasions he makes them. He stands by his doctors instead of kissing the asses of rich donors and patients."

"Cuddy covered your ass plenty," Foreman pointed out as the elevator came to a stop at their floor and the doors opened.

"When it was convenient for or of benefit to her or it didn't really matter one way or another," House agreed, leading the way off the elevator and toward Intensive care.

"So if she was such a lousy administrator and bitch, why did you agree to come today?" Foreman demanded.

"Because she could also be a good friend," House replied. "The two aren't necessarily mutually exclusive. Besides, a lot of the crap she pulled was attributable to her disease. It's kind of hard to do your job properly and be Ms. Popularity at the same time under ideal circumstances, let alone when you have a mass of crap cells growing in your brain."

Foreman said nothing in response to that. Upon arrival in ICU Foreman checked both of them in at the nursing desk before proceeding to Cuddy's room. Foreman stood between the door and House.

"Just so you know," he said to House, "she stopped treatments and basically gave up. She's lost a lot of weight and, well—"

"Yeah, yeah, she looks like hell just like any end stage cancer victim," House said, rolling his eyes. "I've seen it."

"Yeah," Foreman agreed, "but how many times have you see it happen to a friend? It's one thing to see a patient of yours looking that way; it's quite another when that patient is someone you care about."

House had to concede the point, nodding once in acknowledgement. Foreman stepped aside and allowed him to pass. The blinds were drawn in the glass-walled room to give Cuddy privacy from gawkers. House slid the door open and stepped inside. He slid the door shut again and then looked toward her bed.

The lighting in the room was low and an IPod and speakers sat on the bedside table quietly playing soft jazz. On the bed, under several blankets, was the nearly emaciated form of Lisa Cuddy. She was a petite woman to begin with—her assertive personality and four-inch heels had made her seem taller and more imposing than she actually was—but illness had made her look even smaller and more vulnerable. Chemotherapy had caused her hair to fall out and even after she'd stopped treatment her body had been so overtaxed that her hair had barely begun to grow back; it was little more than peach fuzz that was covered by a stylish multicolor scarf wrapped around her head. She wore an oxygen mask and on the IV stand above her head were two bags—standard saline in one and morphine in the other. The morphine ran through a pump and Cuddy had a certain amount of control over the pump using a remote button clipped to her gown where she could easily reach it.

Her beautiful face looked shrunken, the hollows of her cheeks and around her eyes deep, her skin looking a deep, sickly yellow and stretched over her cheekbones. She appeared to be asleep.

House swallowed hard. It was very difficult seeing her like this and he was tempted to turn around and walk out so he didn't have to face not just her mortality but by extension his mortality and the mortality of humankind in general. He took a couple of steps toward the bed, heading for the chair resting beside it.

"You actually came," she murmured suddenly, unexpectedly. House started in spite of himself. Taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly House closed the distance and sat down in the chair.

"Foreman has pictures of my boyfriend and me having sex in—" House began sarcastically but Cuddy interrupted him, smiling with her eyes closed. She lifted her mask as she spoke so he could hear her better.

"If Foreman had incriminating…pictures of you he'd…use them to get more…that just your agreement to…come here to watch me die," she told him between breaths. "He tell you about his…recent acquisition?"

"Dr. Equuis?" House clarified. "Now those would be interesting pictures."

"Eww." Cuddy made a face. "You _would_…think so. Rumor has it…you have pictures of Wilson…and a duck at…one of his…bachelor parties."

"Rumor is such a gossip," House quipped. "I wouldn't believe a word she says, if I were you."

"Hmm," she hummed and then moaned and screwed up her face as pain attacked her. House watched as she opened her eyes a crack and felt around for her button. House gently took her hand and laid it on the pump trigger. She pressed the button, which triggered the morphine pump to give her a dose. Quickly her face relaxed again and she closed her eyes.

Cuddy was silent and motionless for a while, long enough that House suspected that she fell asleep with the additional morphine. Her heart rate and respirations confirmed it. He rose from his chair long enough to grab the chart at the end of her bed. Paging through it he perused the data and comments recorded by the nurses and doctors involved in her palliative care. It was clear why Foreman was certain that she wouldn't survive the day; both of her kidneys and her liver were failing or had failed completely already. She had refused dialysis. House didn't blame her; there was no point in delaying what was inevitable, especially since she was in constant pain anyway. She had already signed a DNR, again of no surprise to him.

His cellphone beeped indicating that he'd just received a text message. He set the chart down and then pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened the text. It was from Chase concerning his patient. He'd just experienced a spike in his temperature and began to seize. They were able to stop the seizure and lower his fever but not eliminate it. House began to text back his answer.

"Trouble?" Cuddy slurred. Her chart had said that she had been in and out of consciousness over the past two days, usually lucid but not always.

"My patient just spiked a fever of 106 and began to seize," House responded, not looking up from his phone. "I'm just leaving some orders with Chase. He's supervising both his team and mine today."

"At St. Luke's?"

House pressed send and then pocketed his phone again. "Yup."

"Chase has his own team?"

"Yes. I made him assistant head of diagnostics. He's good—must have had a genius for a teacher."

Cuddy smirked at House's self-commendation, opening one eye. "As egotistical as ever."

House couldn't help but smile. "Justin says he can measure how well my day has gone based on how arrogant I am when I get home."

"Mm." Cuddy nodded ever so slightly. "Is that your partner?"

House nodded. She already knew that from the lawsuit negotiations, but illness was affecting her memory. "Yes. Dr. Justin Clee. He's a vascular surgeon."

"Is he cute?" she asked.

"Sexy as hell," House told her. "Blond, blue-eyed, tall like me, and an ass you can't resist grabbing no matter how hard you try. He's smart, too. Sharp dresser, musically talented and a sex god."

"If I wasn't…dying I'd go after…him…myself." She sighed. "You could have knocked…me over with…a feather when I first…found out you were…bisexual and yet…I guess I've…always suspected…something. I would have thought…that you and Wilson…would be a match…if you two weren't straight. I guess…the joke was on…me. Too bad it didn't…work out for the…two of you."

House nodded. "Some things are just not meant to be."

"Like…us."

"Yeah."

Cuddy grimaced and pressed the trigger again. She sighed as relief came to her. "Maybe the timing wasn't right…for you and Wilson. It's…sad. You were in…love with him…weren't you?"

House decided there was no harm in admitting it to her now. "Yes. I will always…." He stopped himself, not trusting himself from saying anything more. There were a number of factors that had worked against them but a lack of love hadn't been one of them. "I'm happy with Justin."

"Good," she said with a nod and then was asleep, just like that.

House took her frail hand into his and held it, burdened with a feeling of double loss. Gently he set her hand down. She didn't stir. He rose from his seat and quietly stepped out of the room. House pulled out his cellphone.

"You can't use that in here," the charge nurse at the desk told him, glaring at him over her glasses.

Opening his mouth to tell her where she could shove those glasses he stopped at the last moment and growled, limping over to the desk. He grabbed the desk phone and began to dial. When she began to protest again he sneered, "Don't you have better things to do than sit on your fat ass acting as the phone police? Things like, oh, I don't know, _nursing_?"

She glared at him resentfully, getting up from her chair and moving to the other side of the station to file a couple of medical folders.

House waited for the call to be answered, hiding the anxiety he felt. The only response he received was the message on Clee's voicemail. He thought about just hanging up but then thought better of it.

"Justin, Cuddy's close but I may be late meeting you for dinner," House told him. _If you can tear yourself away from Jenny's side long enough to eat._ He wanted to have one meal where they didn't have to watch what they talked about because they were eating with Jenny in her room. "I'll let you know for certain when it gets closer to the time. It's weird—everything here is the same yet different. Looking forward to returning home. Bye."

Hanging up and putting his cellphone away, he exhaled loudly in frustration and then returned to Cuddy's room and sat down again. He was in there only a few minutes when the door slid open and a doctor in her mid-Thirties walked in. She had short, light brown hair and medium build and looked vaguely familiar though she probably worked in a department he rarely had anything to do with while at PPTH.

"You must be Dr. House," she whispered to him with a mild smile.

"Depends upon who's asking," he quipped quietly.

"I'm Dr. Thomas, Dr. Cuddy's Palliative care specialist," she told him as she picked up the chart and began to peruse it. "Just checking on her before I go to lunch. Dr. Foreman told me you would be here today."

"Just don't tell anyone else," he replied. "I'm _persona non gratia_ here these days."

"Maybe with some of the ladder climbers and board," she replied, smirking, obviously aware of the settlement to his lawsuit. "Most of the other doctors I've spoken to actually see you as a hero of sorts."

House looked at her like she'd lost her mind. "I thought you said you came here _before_ you ate. It sounds more like you just got back from a three-martini lunch."

She grinned at that, made a notation in the chart and then replaced it. "Because of your suit the board has cleaned up it's act. You weren't the only one being cheated out of benefits and having your pension fund dipped into, you know. And don't let some of those pencil dicks in this hospital, and we all know who they are, get away with blaming you for budget cut backs. What it's been rumored you got from the hospital doesn't come close to making a dent in the big-wigs pockets, especially when you consider they're under investigation for fraud and could end up sending a few patsies to prison."

"Cuddy won't be one of them," House said softly, looking at the sleeping woman.

"No," Thomas agreed with both regret and relief, "she won't. Has she been awake since you got here?"

"In and out of sleep," he answered. "In pain, had to use the trigger a handful of times."

"Yeah," Thomas sighed. "How lucid was she?"

"Quite."

"Good. She maxed out on the Morphine by six p.m. yesterday. Had to move to other alternatives." Thomas shook her head.

"You should have unlocked the pump," House told her flatly, knowing exactly what it was he was saying. "What the hell difference does a day make when she's in torment like this? No one would have questioned the death if you'd gone about it right. No autopsy, and you would have done her a service. She's dead anyway; it just would have been one less day of suffering."

Thomas sat at the end of the bed facing him. "We never had this conversation."

"What conversation?"

"Right." Thomas sighed heavily again. "I won't do that without my patient's consent, unofficial, of course. I'm not standing in judgment, Doctor, but I have to be able to live with my decisions when it comes to this job. She wasn't at all lucid last night, so I couldn't do that. I wish she had been. Believe me, I hate cases like this where no matter what we do, we just can't get rid of all the pain, and there's no hope that she'll recover." She stood up. "I have to go. By the way, do you happen to know the year Sir Isaac Newton died?"

House looked at her, frowning in confusion. "Yes…?" It then occurred to him why she asked and he nodded knowingly.

"Good," she told him, returning the nod. "Well, it was nice finally talking with you, Dr. House. Take care." Thomas left the room. House watched her go then looked at Cuddy and settled in to wait.

About an hour later Cuddy awoke, moaning. House helped her find her trigger again and she pressed it twice.

"House?" she murmured, looking at him questioningly. "When did...you get…here?"

House smiled weakly; her mind was going fast and along with it her memory. Her vitals were steadily declining and she was apparently finding it increasingly difficult to breathe.

"Just got here," he lied. "Terrible traffic from Philadelphia."

"What were…you doing…in Philadelphia?" she asked, frowning. "Shouldn't you…be in…the clinic…right now? You…owe me…three more hours…this week."

House bit the inside of his cheek. "Can't. Got a case. Came in here to think where my idiot team can't bug with their stupid ideas."

"Well…get out…of…my office," she replied, dozing off again. "Go hide…in Wilson's…office…"

Her eyes fluttered closed. House reached out to cup her cheek with one hand and hold her hand with the other. As soon as he touched her, Cuddy's eyes opened and zeroed in on his.

"I…should have…chosen you…instead of Lucas," she whispered, wheezing. "I've loved you…since Michigan. Always liked…bad boys…so sexy."

House smirked at that, blinking at the burning sensation he felt in his eyes. "Well, Cuddles, you were a pretty hot number yourself. With Patti and Selma and that ass of yours, you were a force to reckon with…always have been."

"Not…anymore," she replied. "Hold…my hand."

"I am—" he began, but quickly stopped himself. Swallowing hard he took her hand in both of his. "Like this?"

"Rachel…is on…vacation with…Julia. I…won't ever…see her…again, will…I?"

House shook his head but didn't trust himself to speak.

"S'okay," Cuddy told him. "She shouldn't…see me…like this. Someday, when…she's older…tell her…that…I loved her. Will you?"

"I will," House pledged.

Cuddy nodded once and then groaned from pain and pressed her trigger several times. House knew that there was a safety cut off once she reached the maximum safe dose of Morphine and wouldn't reengage until it was safe again, no matter how many times she pressed the button.

"Lisa," he said to her. "I have the code to the morphine pump. I can disengage the safety cut off. I can make the pain go away completely. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

He searched her eyes for lucidity, and found it. A smile crossed her lips, affection beaming in those blue-grey eyes. "Yes."

"Do you want me to override the cut off?" House whispered, bringing his face very close to hers.

She took another wheezing breath, then, "Yes. But…first…?"

"First what?" House asked her gently.

"I'm sorry," she answered, her eyes moistening. "I'm so sorry, Greg."

"Forget about it," he answered, pretending that he did _not_ just feel a tear roll down his cheek. "I have, just now. Do you want me to override the cut off now?"

She nodded. House picked up his cap, rose from his seat and walked over to the door, peeking out at the nursing station. Nurse Fat Ass was on the phone, looking away from the monitors and Cuddy's cubicle. He moved then to the small CCTV camera mounted in the corner of the room and hung the cap over it. Then he went to the IV pump that was regulating the Morphine and punched into it Thomas's code: 1727. After that he turned off the safety cut off and retrieved his cap. A quick look out at the nursing station confirmed that no one had noticed. He sat down again. Cuddy had watched him during this.

"Thank you," she whispered. House leaned toward her and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"You're welcome, Lisa," he murmured against her skin.

**Monday, August 10, 2010; 3:33 P.M. (Central)**

Wilson looked up when Alex poked his head into the lounge and said his name. He'd been playing a game of Gin with two other patients between therapy sessions. He joined Alex in the corridor.

"What's up?" he asked his therapist.

"Phone call from House," Alex told him. "He said it's urgent."

The first thought Wilson had was that something unexpected had happened with Jenny Clee, but then realized that if that were the case, it would most likely have been Dr. Bell who called him. His second thought was that there was something wrong with House, which frightened him.

"I'll take the call," Wilson told him, and followed Alex to the administration office. He sat down in a chair in front of the main desk and Alex handed him the phone receiver then hung around. Wilson smiled at him. "It's okay, you can go. I can handle this on my own."

Alex looked skeptical about that, but reluctantly left Wilson to speak with House in privacy.

"Hi, House? What's wrong?"

House's hesitation only made Wilson more anxious.

"House, are you okay?" Wilson asked him worriedly.

"Cuddy's dead," House told him, his voice sounding emotionless which Wilson knew was practiced. "I'm in Princeton. Foreman called me, told me her family was on vacation and she wouldn't last the day; he didn't want to see her die alone. She died about five minutes ago."

_So soon?_ Wilson knew that it was possible, but had expected treatment to give her a few more months at least.

"That's fast," he said, feeling tongue-tied, which was odd considering part of his job was watching terminal patients pass. "I would have thought she'd have longer with treatment—"

"She stopped treatment, apparently," House replied. "She was in uncontrollable pain at the end. Anyway, I figured you might want to know that she was gone."

"Thank you," Wilson told him sincerely. "How are _you_?"

"Me? I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine," Wilson told him bluntly. "Is Justin there with you?"

"No," House answered, and Wilson could hear him sigh. "He's back in Philly with Jenny."

Wilson frowned at the disappointment he heard in House's voice but figured it was best not to comment. "Are you returning to Philadelphia now or tomorrow morning?"

"Tonight," House answered. "I have a patient spiking a fever and sweating blood."

"Just the way you like them," Wilson joked fondly. "I'm sorry, House. I know this had to have been hard for you. I'm impressed that you were willing to be there for her after everything that has happened. I'm proud of you."

There were a few seconds of silence before House responded, his voice husky, "Thanks. Uh, I'll contact you with the funeral information when Foreman gets back to me on that. I won't be going. I already said good-bye."

"House, did you ride your motorcycle to Princeton?"

"No, I drove my car. Why?"

Wilson sighed silently, relieved. "Whether you want to admit it or not, I can tell that you're not at the top of your game right now. You okay to drive?"

"Are you asking me if I've been drinking?" House returned knowingly. Wilson smiled; of course House would know what he was thinking.

"Have you?"

"No," House assured him. "I've got to set a good example for you."

Wilson chuckled, relieved. "I guess there's a first time for everything—just kidding."

"I know," House assured him. "Well, I have to get going. Talk to you again."

"You will," Wilson assured him, wishing he was there to make certain House got back to Philadelphia safely, that he didn't have to make the drive alone. "Bye, House."

"Bye, Wilson."

House ended the call and Wilson hung up, too. He stared at the phone for a moment, both saddened by Cuddy's death but glad that House had thought to let him know. The fact that House had even gone back to Princeton to sit with Cuddy during her final hours impressed him; House really had grown up. That fact made Wilson miss him more than ever.

"James?"

Wilson rose from the chair and approached Alex, who was standing in the doorway.

"So did you listen in on the entire conversation?" he asked the psychiatrist, irritated. "I told you, I was fine. He just called to let me know that our former boss and friend had passed away today."

Alex shrugged. "It's my job to look out for you."

"It's your job to help me get sane enough to leave here in a few weeks," Wilson replied, "not to spy on me. If you're worried that I'm going to chase after House, get hurt, and start drinking again, don't. I'm quite aware that ship has sailed."

Wilson stepped past him and was halfway down the corridor when Alex called after him. "I'm not sure you are, James. That's what concerns me."

Turning back to face him, Wilson asked sharply, "Why? Are you jealous?"

Alex simply stared at him without answering, but his expression was unnerving. Wilson quickly turned and hurried back to the lounge; this, he hadn't expected and had no idea what to do about it.

**Monday, August 10, 2010; 6:39 P.M.**

House pushed open the door to Jenny's room and found Clee reading a story to her. The child that looked so much like her father was half-asleep and quickly succumbing to slumber. He looked up at House with stopping and gave him a wink in acknowledgement. House tiredly sat down in another chair, rubbing his leg absently.

The drive back to Philadelphia had been plagued with traffic snarls of various kinds, leaving him with too much time with nothing else to do but think. Watching Cuddy suffer like she had at the end had been extremely draining on him. After he'd overridden the safety cut off on the morphine pump he'd left it up to her when she wanted to go. Cuddy had told him that she loved him, and told him to be happy before pressing the trigger over and over again until she passed out. House had been holding her other hand, unashamed of the fact that a few tears had fallen. They had been friends for many years and despite the hard feelings over the past two or three he knew he was going to miss her.

He'd made certain that the dose had been lethal, turned the safety cut off back on, and then sat with her until she stopped breathing and flatlined. The nurse and a resident intensivist had come into the room but since she had signed the DNR they made no attempt to revive her. Instead they examined her quickly to confirm death, noted the time, and turned all of the support instruments and monitors off before leaving House alone with her for a few minutes longer. He'd leaned over to kiss her forehead again before pulling the light blanket draped over her up over her head. After that he'd left her room and headed for his car, where he'd simply sat for a minute or two before calling Wilson. He wasn't certain why he'd called him instead of Clee, though in his mind he told himself that it was because Wilson had been her friend once upon a time and deserved to find out from someone he knew. If he had called Clee first, he probably would have gotten his partner's voicemail anyway.

Wilson's concern for him had hit a chord inside House that he didn't want to acknowledge. For a moment it had seemed like they were back before Amber had entered their lives, back when all they'd had was each other and House had had little doubt that Wilson cared about him in spite of his marriages to Bonnie and Julie. There hadn't been uncomfortable silences back then. It had made House warm all over, and left him wishing again that things had worked out between him and Wilson. Quickly, however, guilt had replaced his nostalgia; things hadn't worked out, and he was with Clee now. He loved Clee, and this time of trial and distance between them was only temporary. Things would improve once everything with Jenny was taken care of. They'd go back to the love and intimacy and passion and he'd be happy again.

That is, when Jenny was at school, or asleep or otherwise entertained by someone other than Clee.

He started when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Jenny had fallen asleep and the surgeon stood in front of him.

"Penny for your thoughts," Clee told him softly.

"They're not worth that much," House told him, and stood up. He possessively took Clee's hand and led him out of Jenny's room. Once in the corridor, he wrapped his arms around Clee's waist and pulled him into a kiss.

"Mmm," Clee said when their mouths parted, "I needed that."

"So did I," House told him quietly. "I tried calling you from Princeton but all I got was Voicemail."

"I turned my ringer off," Clee explained, "so it wouldn't disturb Jenny and it was in my jacket pocket so I didn't feel it vibrate."

House nodded. "It's been a long day. I need you tonight, Justin. I need to have dinner with you alone, make love with you and go to sleep with you. I miss you."

"I miss you too," Clee told him. "Why don't we go to your office, lock the door, order in some food, and then provide our own dessert—"

"No," House replied, shaking his head and frowning slightly. He lowered his arms and took a step backward. "I don't want pizza and office sex before you camp out in Jenny's room for another night. I want to go home, make you something to eat, talk without having to censor ourselves, and then have dessert in our bed and fall asleep in each other's arms. I need you after a day like today."

Justin raised his hand to cup House's cheek and he pressed his face into his palm in reaction. "I can't just leave her, Greg. What if she wakes up and I'm not there?"

"Wasn't this supposed to be Marilyn's night sitting with her?" House asked, growing frustrated despite the fact that he'd anticipated this being a challenge.

"If I leave her alone with Marilyn, she may not still be here in the morning—"

"Bullshit!" House snapped. "Roth has extra security both here on this floor and at every exit. The nursing staff has instructions to keep an eye on any movements Marilyn makes while here with Jenny. The police are involved. The odds of Marilyn being able to get Jenny out of her room without being caught are so low as to be laughable. You _know_ that. Why don't you be honest with me about why you don't want to come home with me?"

"I am," Clee insisted, becoming defensive. "I don't know what you think my motives are, but the truth is I simply want to protect my daughter. I thought you understood how much she means to me."

"I do," House told him, swallowing down the lump forming in his throat. "What I'm beginning to question is how much _I_ mean to you."

"You're acting like a child," Clee told him, shaking his head in disgust.

"Maybe I should," House muttered bitterly. "Maybe I'd get a little of your attention that way." He stalked away, heading quickly for the elevators. When Clee didn't follow House wished he could say he was surprised, but that would have been a lie. Everything was turning to sand and was slipping away through his fingers no matter how hard he tightened his fist.


	65. Chapter 65 Part 3 Ch 31

**Title:** **Resurrection**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer**: House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N**: This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler** **Alert**: This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

Word Count:

**Rating**: **M (NC-17) **for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Thirty-One: Friday, August 28, 2010; 11:17 P.M.**

Of all the bars in Philadelphia, it had to be this one—sleazy, run down and filled with questionable characters—which she was called to at such a late hour. Hutton made her way through the dimly lit, smoky pool hall, ignoring the leers, a catcall, and angry glares (from the girls working the room) to reach the bar.

"I'm Dr. Hutton? You called me to pick up a 'trouble-maker' named House?" She yelled just to be heard over the noise of music, loud voices, and concussing pool balls and cues. The bartender, a sixtyish balding man, looked her up and down a few times in a fashion that made her skin crawl. He gave her a Jack 'o Lantern smile and nodded.

"Yeah, but he pissed off a couple of regulars trying to hustle them at pool and they were going to pound the snot out of him in my bar," he told her with a shrug. "I didn't want my establishment damaged so I forced your friend to go to the back with the other bartender to babysit. He's pretty loaded." He reached under the bar and pulled out House's keys and cell phone, handing them to her.

"Has he said anything at all about why he was drinking tonight?" Hutton asked, worrying her lip a little. "He's an alcoholic who prior to this was doing quite well in his recovery."

"Nah, he didn't say anything to me; he was too busy mouthing off to everyone else," the bartender told her. "It was like he was trying to get into a fight the way he was baiting people. You can go through those doors," he pointed to a swinging door off to the side of the bar, "to get him and take his crazy ass home."

"How much does he owe you?" Hutton asked, setting her purse onto the bar and opening it.

"He's paid up," the bartender told her with a shake of his head. "Just get him out of here."

Hutton nodded grimly, thanked him, and then headed through the door to the back of the building. Almost straight ahead down a short corridor was a lit storage room with the door propped open. She made her way there and found House playing cards with the bored and slightly annoyed-looking bar employee (who looked at her with relief).

"Time to go home, House," she said tiredly.

"Don't wanna," House slurred, still quite drunk and petulant. "I need an eight on the river."

"Lay the card," she told the employee with a sigh. Obediently the young man did as she said, flipping the river card. It was a three of hearts, which did House absolutely no good. House cursed softly and threw his hand into the center of the table.

"Deal again!"

"Can you excuse us, please?" Hutton asked the employee politely. She didn't have to ask twice; he was out the door before House could protest. "Let's go, Diamond Greg."

"That was lame," House told her, not making any move. He tilted his chair back and near up ended himself. "Did Justin call you and tell you how I'm a selfish asshole who doesn't understand how important Jenny is to him?"

Hutton pulled up a chair so that she sat facing House, their knees almost knocking. "No. I just happen to be the first person on the speed dial on your cell phone to pick up. The bartender called me. I'll give you your keys and phone once I drop you off at home. So this is about an argument you had with Justin?"

"Arguments," House corrected. "This one was the worst."

"Why didn't you tell me during our last session that you and he were having problems," Hutton asked gently. "That's the kind of thing we need to talk about in our sessions so we can deal with it appropriately, not like this."

House looked at her with eyes so sad and defeated that she wanted to hug him, but knew better than to do that—especially when he was as inebriated as he was.

"I'm a failure," he murmured, then averted his eyes to the floor.

Sighing, Hutton shook her head. "You're not a failure, House. You slipped; it's regrettable, but not the end of the world. It happens. What's important now is what you're going to do about it."

He looked at her again, frowning in confusion and blinking at her. "Whadaya mean?"

"I mean," she explained, smiling softly, "are you going to continue to wallow in booze and self-pity and throw away everything you've worked so hard to achieve, or are you going to let me take you home, sleep off the booze, and then work to get back on track? If you choose to continue to wallow then that's when you fail; you'll stay a winner if you get up, dust yourself off, and keep going."

"I can't change," he told her. "People don't change."

"Ah, we're back to _that_ mantra, are we?" Hutton's smile turned crooked. "You're right; a person's base personality doesn't change, but personality and actions aren't fixed with each other. You can choose to act positively and be a cantankerous, eccentric old coot, or you can choose to act negatively and be the same. People are capable of changing their behaviors and thought patterns while still remaining themselves. You've already shown me that you can change your behavior and thought patterns so I'm not buying that bullshit about you not being able to. Which ever path you choose to take from here is ultimately up to you, but regardless, you either come voluntarily with me now or the bartender out there is going to call the cops and have them hall your ass out of here. I think your own bed beats a filthy cot in a drunk tank any day, don't you?"

She pushed the chair back and rose to her feet before extending a hand out to him.

House looked skeptical. "So you're not gonna lecture me anymore, then?"

"I _never_ lecture," she replied only to earn a scoffing snort from him. "I _don't_! We'll hold off on our _discussion_ of what happened tonight until you're sober."

She waited with her hand out. House looked at it for a moment as if contemplating what he wanted to do, and then grasped her hand and allowed her to help him to his feet. He seemed to find it difficult to keep his balance and when he reached for his cane he kept to trying the second or third one in his vision. Hutton would have found it amusing had House's drinking not been a serious setback. She grabbed his cane and pushed it into his hand.

"Thanks," he told her with a rueful, drunken smile.

"No problem," Hutton replied. "Now, you can use me for balance, but I'm not strong enough to carry you or catch you if you collapse so if you think that's a possibility tell me now and I'll go get that young guy to help you to my car."

"I'm fine," House told her before burping. It stunk and she made a face, waving the air around them. "Sorry."

"Just don't puke on me," Hutton told him. "I chose psychiatry because I don't handle puke very well." She wrapped his arm over her shoulder and put her arm around his waist to keep him steady.

"People might talk," House told her with an exaggerated wink.

"Yeah, like that's always been a concern of mine," Hutton replied, rolling her eyes. They slowly but surely made it out of the storage room and down the corridor. "How are you feeling?"

"Peachy," House replied with a smirk. "Tomorrow I'll feel like shit but right now I'm feeling pretty good."

"I'll bet," she muttered. "Just let me know if you're going to throw up so I have plenty of time to drop you and get out of the line of fire."

"You're too good to me," House returned sarcastically, causing her to chuckle. He wasn't amused though. "I'm serious. You are. Too good to me, that is."

"Not possible, House," Hutton replied as they walked through the bar to the front door. "You're my friend; nothing is too good for my friends."

House didn't reply to that, and Hutton was glad. She knew his emotional state was fragile and she wanted to reassure him, but getting into an argument over his worthiness while he was drunk would have been an exercise in futility. Once they were outside in the cool evening air House seemed to perk up some, making it easier on her. Hutton wasn't certain how they managed to do it but House was put into the passenger's seat of her car without incident. She buckled him in.

"Thanks, Mom," he quipped, rolling his eyes, annoyed. "I don't know how to do up my own seatbelt."

She ignored the jab and went around to the driver's side. Once she was in the car she reached around and picked up something off of the floor in the backseat behind House. It was a used plastic ice cream pail, washed out. She handed it to him.

"Just in case," she explained with a shrug. He looked at her blankly for a moment before beginning to laugh.

"God, I thought _Wilson_ was bad," he told her before tossing the pail over his shoulder into the back seat. She sighed, started the car, and pulled it away from the curb into the flow of traffic.

House was quiet on the way home, and at one point Hutton had suspected that he'd passed out but she'd been mistaken when he suddenly spoke.

"You gonna tell Justin about this?"

Shaking her head and glancing over at him, she shook her head. "No. You know I wouldn't do that; it'd be a violation of doctor-patient privilege. I do think, however, that you should be honest with him about this."

"He'll dump me."

Hutton frowned. "Why would you think that? He loves you and knows that you suffer from a chronic disease that might occasionally suffer flare-ups."

House opened his eyes and looked over at her blearily. "He told me that I was a selfish bastard that resented him for the time he spends with his sick daughter. He'll dump me. Hell, he's gonna do that anyway. You know why?"

Hutton shook her head. "No."

"'Cause he's right."

Hutton said nothing to that. She had feared this sort of thing would take place as soon as she'd heard that Jenny was sick. Many relationships were strained or even destroyed by the illness and/or death of a child. House was naturally possessive and Clee loved Jenny to a fault.

After a moment or two of silence, House added, "I just wanted him to spend a little time with me. I didn't want to take him away from Jenny for good, just for a couple of hours a day. I miss him."

"You live together, House," Hutton told him. "You do have a little awake time alone each day together, at least."

House shook his head. "He hasn't come home in two and a half weeks. He eats and sleeps at the hospital. I've been bringing him changes in clothing. The only way I get to spend time with him is if I sit in the room and watch Jenny sleep with him. I can't sleep without him in bed with me."

This was news to Hutton. Sure, she'd known that Clee spent a large part of his day with Jenny but she hadn't been aware of the fact that he never left her side. It was no wonder House felt neglected, even abandoned; she would too if she were in his place. Clee's devotion to his daughter was understandable; so was House's need to spend time alone with his partner.

"Why didn't you tell me this on Wednesday when we met?" she asked him, eyeing him appraisingly.

House shrugged. "I thought that you would be angry at me, too. I don't want to lose _everybody_." He turned his head to look out the side window.

Hutton reached over and grasped House's left hand, squeezing it gently and holding it. He looked back at her then at their joined hands.

"You're not going to lose everybody, House," she assured him tenderly. "I promise you that."

House withdrew his hand from hers and shook his head. "Don't promise that. You can't. Everybody lies, and eventually, everybody leaves, too." He turned to look out the side window again and was silent until they reached home. Hutton drove up to House's place and helped him inside. She directed them straight to House's bedroom, ignoring the mess of the rest of the house, indicators of his growing depression.

"I think I can take it from here," House told her. "I'm not so drunk that I can't undress myself, unless you had your heart set on helping me." He wagged his eyebrows and Hutton couldn't help but smile and shake her head at him.

"No, you go ahead," she told him, leaving his bedroom. She returned to the living room and began to tidy the place up. A few minutes later she heard House shuffle down the corridor.

"Stop that," House told her. "Go home."

"I think I'm going to camp out in the spare room tonight," she told him. "That way I can make you breakfast and we can talk when you're sober. If I go home you'll do a disappearing act to avoid a session with me." She smiled to soften her words.

"You don't trust me," House accused calmly. "Smart girl. If you want fresh bedding, it's in the hall closet."

House headed back toward his bedroom, using both the wall and his cane to keep his balance.

"Goodnight, House," Hutton called after him.

He simply grunted in reply and then disappeared behind his bedroom door. Hutton spent a few more minutes tidying before calling Stephania to tell her just was absolutely necessary to explain why she was spending the night over at House's before retreating to the spare bedroom for the night.

**Saturday, August 29, 2010; 8:30 A.M.**

House awoke with the irresistible urge to vomit. Since in the mornings his thigh muscle was almost always stiff and sore from being inactive for hours, movement for him was slow and limited; he didn't quite make it to the toilet, heaving loudly into the sink instead. It went on for what seemed to be an eternity and even after there was nothing left but bile coming up he continued to retch for a while. It left him weak and shivering, leaning on the vanity with his head bowed over the sink basin. Perspiration trickled down his face, soaked through his t-shirt. He managed to find the energy to turn on the tap, allowing the water to flush down the former contents of his stomach—most of which was bourbon from his drinking binge—before scooping it into his mouth to flush it out and then washing his face with it.

"You okay?" Hutton asked from the open doorway. She stood leaning against the door jam, fully dressed, her arms folded around her as if hugging her.

He looked up at her, turning off the sink and reaching for a towel to dry his hands and face. "Stupid question," he mumbled irritably.

Hutton shrugged. "I know. Conversation starter."

"Well, it sucks," he told her, finishing with the towel and dropping it into the sink. He opened the cabinet above it and pulled down a bottle of ibuprofen, tossing back two and swallowing them without water.

"So noted," she replied, unaffected by his ill-humor. "Feeling well enough to eat? I've made some coffee, pancakes and bacon."

House frowned. "I have bacon?"

"No," Hutton told him with a hint of a smile. "I had Stephania bring some over, along with some syrup. You're pantry and fridge are pretty empty. Let me guess—Justin does the grocery shopping?"

"Do I look like _I_ would?" House retorted, raising an eyebrow. "He hasn't been home to do it and I haven't bothered. I could eat."

She nodded, satisfied, watching him as he moved to the toilet. He looked at her again, quirked an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth while still managing to frown.

"You gonna watch me pee? Does Anderson know about this kink?"

Hutton blushed, realizing that she had missed that cue to leave and give him some privacy. "He knows about _all_ my kinks," she shot back, trying to recover, before leaving to allow him to continue with his business.

"Do tell," he called after her, giving in to a smirk. He immediately wished he hadn't raised his voice, wincing at the shot of pain in his head. Hangovers were a bitch.

"Not in _your_ lifetime," she called back and House snorted. He relieved himself, washed his hands, and then returned to his bed to grab his cane leaning against the wall next to the headboard. He then moved to the kitchen. Hutton gestured for him to sit down at the island bar where she presented him with a stack of pancakes, a plate of bacon, a mug of coffee and a glass of orange juice. She sat on a stool facing him, sipping her coffee quietly while he ate. It never bothered House to have someone watch him eat; he'd gotten used to it having lunch with Wilson so many times over the years.

Once House had polished off his food and was on his second cup of coffee, Hutton broached the subject of the night before again.

"So you told me a little bit about what's been going on between Justin and you last night, but you were pretty pickled and I'd just as soon hear what's going on from you now that you're sober."

"And stuffed," House added with a burp. "That's Chinese for 'my compliments to the chef.'"

"You're ignorant," she told him, appearing less than amused except for the gleam in her eyes. "And bordering closely on racist."

"What?" House defended, feigning innocence. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Now, in Egypt the common way to show appreciation for a meal—"

"Here in America we say 'Thank you.'" Hutton told him drily, apparently not interested in Egyptian manners. "Then we offer to help with the dishes."

"Thanks," House told her, sliding off of the stool. "That's good of you. Dish soap in under the sink. Looney Tunes is on in three minutes. It's just not Saturday without Bugs and Daffy."

House grabbed his cane and made his way to the den where he turned on the TV and plopped down onto the sofa, lifting his bad leg up onto the coffee table. He wasn't surprised when Hutton forsook clean up to pursue a conversation he dreaded having with her. He selected the correct satellite channel for his cartoon and then browsed the other channels with Picture in Picture.

"You're avoiding our conversation," Hutton told him. She sat down next to him.

"And you're annoying," House told her without looking at her. "But I don't feel like playing 'State the Obvious' right now, thanks. Don't forget to take your maple syrup with you when you leave. Now."

Hutton said nothing; nor did she move. She sat staring directly at him, instead; her eyes bored through him, or so it seemed, and House struggled to hide the fact that she was unnerving him. When _The Bugs Bunny and Tweety Show_ came on, he could barely pay attention to it because she was really getting underneath his skin with her not-saying-anything tactic. Finally House sighed, muting the TV and looking sideways at her.

"You're not going to leave me alone, are you?"

Her lips twitched upward almost imperceptibly at the corners. "Now who's stating the obvious?" she asked mildly. "Look," she added when House exhaled in frustration, "you can talk to me and we can work this out together, or you refuse to deal with the issue and force my hand into recommending Darryl invokes his powers. If I have to do that—and I really don't want that—then you know what he'll do."

"My safety contract," House murmured, nodding once. "Nolan will recall me to Mayfield."

Her initial silence was a confirmation of the fact. "And the contract you signed gives him the right to keep you there until he deems you're ready to be discharged. I have no say after that. Darryl really isn't a vindictive man, House, you know that, but he was wary about your early release and he'll do what he feels is necessary in your best interest as your primary therapist. I know this sounds like I'm blackmailing you, but—"

"I know," House told her, cutting her off. "You're reminding me that I have a choice and there are consequences if I refuse to talk about what's going on. I don't blame you; you're off the hook."

"I don't care about that," Hutton insisted quickly, rolling her eyes in exasperation. "I care about _you_! You're obviously hurting an awful lot if you're willing to risk being institutionalized again for self-medicating with alcohol. I'm here to help, remember? Not because I have to be but because I _want_ to be. Stop being so pig-headed and talk to me already!"

House rose from the sofa, headed to his piano, then turned back to look at her. It was either talk to her or go back to Mayfield without passing go and collecting $200. He hated this.

"I told him that I needed him," House told her slowly, avoiding her gaze. "He told me that Jenny needed him more. So I fucked up and told him that Jenny wasn't going to survive this and if he didn't get his head out of his ass then once she was dead he would find himself alone because I would be gone, too."

To her credit, Hutton hid her opinion about what he said quite well; her only tell was the twitching of the corner of her mouth almost imperceptibly.

"Is that true? Is Jenny's disease definitely terminal?" the psychiatrist asked him quietly, her voice even. "Did you mean it about not being there any longer?"

House sighed, hung his head for a moment before looking back up at her and shrugging one shoulder. "Wilson told me on the sly that Jenny has virtually no chance of surviving this; she was diagnosed and began treatment too late. Before you suggest it, don't. He _wasn't_ trying to interfere between Justin and I. _I_ demanded to know the truth because I can read Wilson and I could tell that he was being overly optimistic for Justin's sake. After Justin had left the meeting and Wilson and I were able to speak privately, he told me the truth. I didn't say anything to Justin at the time because like an idiot I thought I was protecting him. I can't believe I did that. I call others on pulling that kind of shit! I should have told him right away. Keeping the truth from Justin wasn't protecting him; it was cruel. In the heat of our argument I decided to use that information as a weapon like the complete asshole I really am."

"How long does Wilson figure Jenny has left?" Hutton asked, appearing stunned by the news but trying hard to hide it.

"Wilson figures six months at the most," House admitted softly before sighing and rubbing his cheek with one of his hands. "Her most recent labs do nothing to put that estimate into question."

"Are you really thinking about ending your relationship with Justin?" Hutton asked him.

"I know," House said, "I'm a jerk."

"I didn't say that," Hutton told him, frowning slightly. "I simply asked if that was something you were considering."

House took a seat on the piano bench, still facing her and leaning forward with his chin on the handle of his cane. "I need to know that I matter to him at least as much as Jenny does. That may be selfish, but I need that for our relationship to work. I've been the consolation prize most of my life; the fallback position, the last resort. I love Justin, but I need to be the most important person in the world to him or at least tie for that position with Jenny. I can't allow myself to accept being shoved aside when someone or something better or more important comes along. I've done that, and I wound up carving my arms up and trying to jump off a roof. That makes me a prick, doesn't it?"

Hutton exhaled loudly, rose from the sofa, and approached House where he sat. She placed a hand on his shoulder and he looked up at her with huge, tired, hurting eyes that made her want to comfort him like she would one of her kids.

"No," Hutton told him gently, smiling sadly. "That doesn't make you a prick; that makes you human. We all have that deep desire to be number one somehow, but especially in the minds and hearts of the people we love. I'm not here to defend Justin and tell you that he's right and you're wrong because as in most situations this isn't a matter of right or wrong. I just want you to consider the fact that Justin has this huge hurt in him right now and like most people, he doesn't know what to do with it. He doesn't know how to act or what to do; there's no manual that comes with parenthood that describes what he should do and not do when his daughter is dying and there's nothing he can do to stop it. At the same time, you're hurting badly, too, and there's no instruction manual for you to follow either. He's grieving Jenny and you're grieving him."

"Are you telling me that I should just ride this out?" House asked. "I don't know if I can do that. I don't want to do that only to end up being played the fool and being abandoned again. If I'm not important enough to Justin for him to take one night just for us then…that's not going to change when Jenny dies, either. There will be an entirely new set of factors for him to deal with including grief and I'll get lost among those, too. I could be there for him now more than I already am if he would tear himself away from her bed once in a while but he's pushing me away. If he doesn't want me to be there for him, then maybe I shouldn't be forcing myself onto him. Maybe this is simply the sign that we weren't really meant to be."

Hutton said nothing right away, so House took the opportunity to add. "Even before Wilson told me the truth about Jenny, I was already uncertain about whether or not things between Justin and I were going to work."

Hutton tilted her head to the side, looking upon him curiously. "How come?"

House sighed. "I wasn't certain I wanted to become a co-parent to Jenny. I've never wanted kids. I was okay with sharing Justin with her every other weekend because she does mean so much to him, but even though I said I would stand behind Justin if he sought sole custody, I lied about being good with it. I don't want to have to share full-time. That wasn't part of the agreement when this relationship started. You…you told me before that it wasn't wrong for me not to want to become Jenny's co-parent."

"It's not wrong," Hutton confirmed. "But you need to be honest about that with Justin. Don't lead him to believe that you're okay with it when you're not. That's not fair to anyone involved. And…you have to be accepting of the fact that Justin may not be okay with what you want. If you two talk about it, you can determine together whether or not it's realistic to believe you two have a future together."

"I, of all people, tried to talk," House insisted. "He wasn't interested in hearing what I had to say. I'm not worth enough to him to listen without ten-year-old ears hearing every word spoken. So after cornering Justin when he went to the men's room, I exploded and said things that probably doomed any chance of saving our relationship and I…I couldn't handle the thought of losing him and failing again. I don't want to end up alone."

"So instead of facing the problem just like we're doing right now—which is the healthy way—you decided to drown your sorrows, falling back to old habits," Hutton pointed out. "Did it help?"

House shook his head, feeling defeated. "I screwed up. What else is new?"

"Well," Hutton said, "I'll tell you what's new. You haven't been drinking again this morning or throwing back Vicodin like candy. You're talking, you're reasoning and you're dealing. Success and failure isn't about how many times you fall down—it's about how many times you pick yourself back up, dust yourself off, and start over in the right direction. The best part is—you don't have to do it alone, 'cause I'm still here willing to give you a hand up when you need it."

House looked up at her, looking sad in spite of his attempts to hide how he really felt, and murmured, "Everybody leaves."

**Saturday, August 29, 2010; 2:00 P.M.**

Hutton found Clee talking to one of the nurses at the unit station. He looked thinner than the last time she'd seen him, and wondered if he was eating. His blond hair was a little mussed, he had a couple of days growth of beard and looked completely exhausted, worn out. Her heart went out to him. She couldn't imagine what it would be like to have Stephania or David sick with a terminal disease. The man before her was enduring that horror, and right now he was doing so alone. According to House, Clee had been pushing him away. She wondered if the surgeon's story would be the same.

She couldn't tell him anything that had happened the night before or her discussion with House that morning, but she could have a talk with Clee about how he was doing and perhaps have the opportunity to discuss his side of the tension between him and House if he brought it up. She would have to walk a tight rope in order not to violate doctor-patient confidentiality.

"I'd just like to talk to Dr. Bell," Clee was saying to the nurse, sounding tired and frustrated. "My daughter is in obvious pain; the dosage of morphine she's receiving isn't sufficient and I'd like to see it increased. She isn't anywhere near the maximum dose—I know what I'm talking about. My medical degree is proof."

"I'll page her again, Dr. Clee," the nurse, Judy, told him politely but there was tension in her jaw and neck. It appeared that she might be running short on patience with him, too. "But I can't guarantee anything. As soon as I can make contact with her I will present your request and make certain she speaks with you."

"And in the mean time Jenny suffers," Clee muttered angrily, rubbing his face with both hands. "Perfect."

Hutton walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He started, and looked at her in surprise.

"Hey," Hutton said to him kindly, "I'm certain that Judy will get ahold of Dr. Bell as soon as she can. In the meantime, do you have time to join me for coffee? It's been a while since we last talked and I'd like to catch up with you."

"Jenny's sleeping, but she could wake up—" he began, but Hutton wouldn't take no for an answer.

"I'm certain that Judy will keep an eye on her for you if she does wake up. Just for a few minutes. You seriously need to take a breather. I'm buying—now you can't say no to that."

Clee looked reluctant, glancing back at Jenny's room. Hutton moved her hand from his shoulder to clasp his hand.

"You need a break to eat," Hutton told him. "You're wearing yourself out. If you make yourself sick, then Jenny won't have you there for her at all. Come on—a little bird told me that they just baked cinnamon buns in the cafeteria."

Looking down at her, Clee finally relented, and nodded. "Okay. But just for a few minutes."

"You've got my word," Hutton told him, smiling. She looped her arm around one of his and led him to the elevator before he could change his mind. House hadn't been kidding about his reluctance to leave Jenny's side for even a few minutes. They made pleasant small talk on the way to the cafeteria and as they stood in line for their coffee and warm, gooey cinnamon buns. Hutton paid before Clee could and then picked out a table in the far corner where they could have relative privacy. She fought the urge to frown at the way Clee seemed to be dragging himself to the table, reminding her of a car running on fumes.

"I know what you're doing, Liv," Clee told her, lowering a knowing look on her. "Greg talked to you, didn't he?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "We have regular sessions, so yes, we've talked; about what I can't say. How are you doing, Justin? I mean, _really_. Don't tell me that you're fine because I know that's a lie."

"Well, if you already know how I am, then why ask?" Clee took a sip of his steaming coffee.

"I know that you're not 'fine'," she corrected him, "but not anything else. I can tell you what I think from your appearance and demeanor, if you like?"

Clee sighed, wrapping his hands around the paper cup in front of him. "I feel like everything is spinning out of control and I can't do anything to stop it. I can't sleep, I'm really not hungry…and watching Jenny suffer and decline is killing me, Liv." He exhaled loudly. "I'd do anything to take her pain and suffer it for her."

Hutton nodded. She couldn't tell him that she knew how he felt, because she didn't. Intellectually she could put herself in his place and use her past experience and professional knowledge to explain his feelings but she had never had to watch one of her kids die. She hoped she never could relate to him.

"You're doing what you can, Justin," she assured him. "That's all anyone can ask of you. But you're so much harder on yourself than you should be. Sweetie, you're in pain, too. You need to be gentle on yourself and accept the fact that you can't do everything for her. You need to forgive yourself for that."

He looked down at the cinnamon bun he'd picked up. "Greg told me that…that she's not going to survive this. I came so close to hitting him for saying it that I scared myself. I think I'm losing my mind. How could I even think about hitting him, Liv? I love him. I'm losing Jenny and I don't know how I'm going to survive that but if I end up losing him as well…I _know _I won't survive it and still be sane."

"So you've accepted the fact that House was telling you the truth about that?" She took a drink of her coffee, looking at him over the rim of her cup.

He nodded, still looking away from her. "I wish he would have told me when James Wilson told him. I'm furious that that information was kept from me."

"Justin, you have every reason to be angry about that," Hutton told him. "You should have been told the whole truth. Under the circumstances, I don't see your impulse to hit House as 'insane'. You're in a pressure cooker, and this was just more pressure being applied. There's only so much one person can take. The important thing is that you _didn't_ hit him. You were able to keep yourself under control enough to avoid that. Give yourself credit for that."

Clee just shook his head, unwilling to give himself a pass on anything. Hutton reached across the table and took his hand, holding it gently. His eyes shifted to look at their hands.

"Do you have any idea why House kept that information from you?" she asked him.

"He said he was trying to protect me," he answered with a sigh. "I don't need him to protect me—I need him to be honest with me. How can I trust him if he's keeping secrets with his ex?"

"Did you tell him that?"

"Yes," Clee admitted, finally looking up at her. "That's when we had a huge argument. He was furious at the insinuation that he and Wilson were acting inappropriately and he simply can't understand that I need to be with Jenny right now. Greg has been whining that we never have time alone anymore. Liv, I've told him more than once that we could go to his office or mine and spend some time alone. I just don't want to leave the hospital in case…." His voice trailed off. He looked absolutely miserable.

Hutton squeezed his hand and gave him a moment or two to get himself together. "Have you told him that? That you don't want to leave her side because you're afraid she'll die while you're gone?"

"Well, what other reason would I have?" Clee demanded in frustration. "I've told him that I miss him, too. I've assured him that I would love to go home with him and have life go back to normal, but I can't! Life for me will never be normal again. He said that I love Jenny more than I do him and that I'm pushing him away. I…Liv, I don't know. Maybe…maybe he's right. All I know is, my baby girl is slipping away and the day is going to come all too soon when I won't be able to see her and hold her anymore. She'll be gone forever. But he's not dying. When she's gone, he'll still be alive. I'm scared that by the time that happens, he will have moved on and I will be completely alone. If he could try to understand that and just…just give me time, wait for me." He withdrew his hand from hers and rubbed his face vigorously before rising from the table. "I have to get back. Liv, will you do me a favor?"

"Sure," she told him, nodding. "What is it?"

"Take care of Greg for me?" he asked. "I'm not stupid. I know that he doesn't handle stress and loneliness well and I'm worried that he won't take care of himself or might even…well, slip. He may not believe this, but I love him very, very much."

"Can I tell him the last part?" she asked, smiling ruefully. "I think he needs to hear it right about now. What would be even better is if he heard that directly from you. If I can get him to agree to it, would you take a few minutes to talk to him alone, outside of Jenny's earshot, like you are with me right now? There are some things she doesn't need to hear, and I think you two need to sit down and talk face to face and both of you be completely honest about what you feel."

Clee sighed and nodded. "If you can get him to agree to it, I will; good luck with that, by the way. Thanks for the coffee—and the talk."

Hutton nodded with a smile and watched Clee walk away. Her smile faded. She'd nearly betrayed House by her expression when the surgeon had mentioned House slipping. She didn't think he had noticed anything; at least, she hoped not. It would be up to House to tell him about the night before. Now all she had to do was get two stubborn men to overcome their pride and actually have a real conversation; easy-peasy, right? She rolled her eyes, fortifying herself for the task ahead with more coffee and a very decadent, gooey cinnamon bun.

**Saturday, August 29, 2010; 3:03 P.M.**

Nolan came in from the patio to take the phone from his wife, giving her a peck on the cheek and a quick grope on the ass as she walked away. She threw him a look over her shoulder and he had to repress the urge to chuckle.

"Hello," he said into the phone cheerfully. "How are you doing, Liv?"

"_I'm good_," Hutton replied. "_You sound cheerful. Did I call at an inopportune time_?"

This time he did chuckle, moving to the nearby armchair to sit down. "No, but don't keep me on the phone too long; the missus had that look in her eye. What can I do for you?"

"_First of all, TMI, Darryl._ _Secondly, I'm afraid I don't have good news for you_," Hutton told him with a sigh. "_House relapsed. No Vicodin, but he did end up getting himself very drunk and I got called to pick him up from a bar late last night. I kept an eye on him overnight and then we discussed it this morning. He regrets it, says he wants to pick up where he left off and I believe he genuinely means that_."

"Do you think he'll manage it?" Nolan asked, frowning. He'd feared this happening when Hutton had informed him about Jenny Clee's illness; the illness of a child was a situation notorious for causing stressors in the relationship of the parents—or, in this case, with Jenny's father and his partner. He also had experience with Clee and his darker side from his sessions with Charlie and his own interactions with the man.

Hutton hesitated a beat, Nolan noticed, before speaking. "_He seems determined, but the situation between Justin and him is disintegrating. Justin's highly absorbed by Jenny's illness—almost too much so—and House feels like he's being neglected, even pushed away by Justin. The situation was complicated by the fact that Dr. Wilson, who, as you know, has been consulting on Jenny's treatment, told House privately that he doesn't believe Jenny will survive this, and House failed to tell Justin that right away. When he did tell Justin it was said during an argument and Justin is angry and hurt that he wasn't informed of that fact immediately. I'm afraid that Justin will refuse to forgive House for keeping that secret from him and House will continue to feel rejected which will only fuel depression and poor self-esteem_."

"I see," Nolan acknowledged grimly. "You said that Greg and James Wilson have been talking privately. Was that just once or has that become a regular thing?"

"_I don't know_," Hutton told him, and he could hear concern in her voice. "_House didn't say and under the circumstances I didn't want to push the issue this morning. He was defending Wilson, assuring me that he had asked Wilson for the whole truth first and that Wilson isn't trying to interfere in his relationship with Justin. Personally, I don't trust Wilson any further than I can throw him_."

"Don't forget your objectivity, Liv," Nolan reminded her mildly. "Justin is a friend of yours. Be certain that your suspicion of Wilson is based in fact, not the need to protect the interests of a friend. It could turn around to negatively influence Greg."

"_My suspicion is based on past run-ins with him, Darryl_," she told him. "_And from everything House has ever told me about his past relationship with him. James Wilson is a very secretive, manipulative man who looks out for himself above all else_."

"Funny," Nolan said calmly, "I seem to remember the man calling me one evening sounding very troubled asking about the procedure to admit his best friend to Mayfield. He hoped that I could find room for him because House was hallucinating and psychotic. He sounded terrified—for his friend. I spoke to him over the phone for a while, and he explained to me that he cared a great deal about Greg and feared that he was losing him to the same kind of insanity that had claimed James's younger brother. Then he told me how he felt that Greg's breakdown was his fault for the horrible thing he'd asked of him before betraying him. I asked him what he was talking about."

"_He told you about Amber_," Hutton interjected, sounding pensive.

"Yes," Nolan agreed. "He felt that he'd failed Greg during the unfortunate events surrounding her death and that he'd never forgive himself for asking Greg to risk his own life to save Amber's only to thank him for doing so by deserting him. He told me he'd be willing to do anything to help Greg regain his sanity. I was watching from my office window when James pulled up in front of the hospital with Greg. He got out of the car to get Greg's suitcase out and stood watching as he walked up to the front doors of the hospital. The expression on his face was that of a man barely restraining his tears, feeling frightened and guilty. When I suggested to him that upon his discharge it would be best if Greg didn't live alone James didn't hesitate to take him in. It was hard on Greg when James asked him to move out, but don't forget that it had been nearly a year since Amber died and James was ready to move on, which is a healthy sign that he had completed the mourning process. Greg had not told James about his feelings for him at that point—he hadn't even admitted to them with me—so there was no way James could have known how hard his dating again would be on him.

"There are always two sides to every conflict—sometimes more. I know you know this, Liv, but I think you're having difficulty maintaining your impartiality; ultimately, the people Greg feels comfortable associating with are his choice. If he wishes to communicate with James, whom I understand is currently in therapy to deal with his own issues in a healthy way, that in no way is proof of self-interested interference on James's behalf."

There was a long pause before Hutton responded. "_Point taken, Darryl. What is your opinion on what to proceed with House treatment-wise_?"

"Observe closely and move therapy sessions to daily for the time being," Nolan said. "If he slips again, or continues with other self-destructive behavior, I'll recall him."

"_I agree_," she told him. "_Hey, we're on the same page for once_!"

"I'll call hell and tell them to stock up on space heaters," was the older psychiatrist's retort. Hutton laughed and then bid him goodbye. Nolan hung up and sat in his chair for a while in somber thought.


	66. Chapter 66 Part 3 Ch 32

**Title:** **Resurrection**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer**: House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N**: This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler** **Alert**: This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

Word Count:

**Rating**: **M (NC-17) **for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Thirty-Two: Sunday, August 30, 2010; 1:29 P.M.**

House was playing his piano, trying to use the music to distract him from the urge to hop on his bike, head to the nearest bar, and get a drink, when the phone rang. He had been serious when he told Hutton he wanted to get back on track as soon as possible, but that didn't mean it was easy—especially when he found himself alone. He hated his own weakness.

With a sigh he stopped playing and rose slowly from the bench, limping over to the phone without his cane. It was probably Hutton checking on him. She'd stopped by earlier to see how he was doing before heading to the farmer's market with Stephania. While the teen had been playing little ditties on House's baby grand Hutton had told him about her discussion with Nolan, specifically the fact that his sessions with her would become more frequent again and if he slipped or otherwise found himself in another crisis he would be recalled as per his safety contract. None of that came as a surprise to House, and as much as it irritated him to have the leash shortened again, he acknowledged that he'd put himself back into this situation.

"House here," he answered curtly.

"_House, I'm glad you decided to answer this time,_" Hutton said into his ear. From the quality of the connection and the steady hum in the background House figured she was calling from her car. "_Listen, I just got word that Jenny began to hemorrhage. I don't know the details, but it's not good. You might get a call from the hospital as soon as I hang up if you haven't already._"

House's mind began to spin out scenarios and potential reasons for the sudden downturn in Jenny's status. The hemorrhaging wasn't all that unusual for patients with advanced AML since the productions of thrombocytes suffered at the same as red blood cells did. He immediately thought of Clee, and the wreck he had to be at that moment. House felt his heart drop into his stomach and the nearly uncontrollable need to race to the hospital to be there with him.

"Nobody else has called me yet. Where was the hemorrhaging located?"

"_I think they said her head,_" Hutton replied grimly.

House closed his eyes as soon as she said that as if by doing so he could make the fact that Jenny was likely bleeding into her brain disappear.

"_Look, Stephania and I are almost at St. Luke's,_" Hutton told him when he didn't respond.

"I'm on my way," House told her, forcing himself to sound calm in spite of the fear that caused his stomach to churn. "Just…just tell Justin I'll be there as soon as I can."

"_I will,_" Hutton answered. "_But don't try to get here so quickly that you end up being brought in by ambulance. I'll see you in a little while._"

House hung up without another word. He located his cane and hurried to change out of his old T-shirt and pajama bottoms into a newer T, button up left open, jeans and his Nikes before grabbing his keys, jacket and helmet on his way out the door.

Despite Hutton's suggestion, House pushed his bike's top speeds on the secondary highway until he got to the interstate. There he was more restricted by the increase in traffic volume but he still completely disregarded the posted speed limit, weaving in and out of lanes between cars. This could be—most like would be—it for Jenny. If she was bleeding into her brain, depending upon the amount of bleeding and where in the brain it was located, she was in mortal danger.

Clee would be walking the razor's edge between reason and panic, leaning precariously toward the latter. Knowing that, and afraid of what might happen with his lover should Jenny not survive this, House was wasting no time in getting to St. Luke's to be there for him—that is, if Clee even wanted him there. House had no idea where he still stood with the man, but he _did_ know that he loved him and wanted to be his support if he was allowed to be.

He arrived at St. Luke's breaking all records for time. Despite the effectiveness of the drug protocol he was currently on, his leg bothered him as he pushed it and himself to get into the hospital and locate Clee. A few quick, sharp-toned questions at admitting and he found himself hobble-running to the nearest elevator, heading for the surgery wing.

Hutton and Stephania met him as he got off the elevator and led him to the waiting lounge. They stopped just outside and House peered in to see Clee pacing, his head down, one hand wiping at his face every so often. The vascular surgeon hadn't yet noticed that House was there. It would have been easy for House to just turn around and run away from the situation. He quickly squelched that impulse. That was Princeton House, he reminded himself sternly. He wasn't that man anymore.

"Give us a few minutes?" House whispered to Hutton. She nodded, put her arm around Stephania's shoulder, and led her daughter away in order to give House and Clee some privacy.

House stepped into the lounge. Clee looked up distractedly to see who was coming in. When he saw it was House he froze. They stared at each other for what seemed to House to be an eternity before Clee rushed to House's arms. House held him close, feeling Clee exhale and rest his forehead on his shoulder for a moment or two. House kissed Clee's hair, and the younger man stood up to face him.

Clee's face was stained with several layers of tears, indicating just how long he'd been weeping. His eyes and nose were red and puffy and he looked a mess but House didn't care. He pulled him into a gentle kiss that he hoped was comforting and led Clee to one of the sofas. They sat down.

"Tell me what happened," House said softly.

"I…I had left her room for just a minute or so to go to the men's room," Clee said haltingly. "She was reading one of her books when I walked out. When I started on my way back I heard her nurse shouting for assistance and Dr. Bell being paged, stat. There were nurses racing to her room followed by the resident intensivist. Her blood pressure was plummeting and her heart rate was dangerously erratic. I wasn't allowed back into her room to see the details. I heard the resident tell those attending to her that one of her pupils was blown and she was most likely hemorrhaging into her brain. They rushed her to the ER. She was only there a few minutes before they rushed her for an emergency CT. Bell was there, consulted with the ER attending then told me that she suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage and they were rushing her to surgery to try and stop the bleeding. It's been just over an hour since then and…and I still don't know…" His voice trailed off and new tears slipped down his cheeks.

House gently brushed the tears away with the back of his hand. He didn't know what to say to comfort his lover. The truth was, Jenny was in a very, very bad way.

"This is it, isn't it?" Clee asked him, pulling out of House's embrace and rapping his arms around himself. "She's not going to survive this. Tell me the truth."

Sighing, House searched for words. "It…depends upon where the bleed is, how extensive it is, and whether or not the source is surgically accessible. It may be easily repaired and the amount of bleeding minimized…or…or the bleeding may have been massive or uncontrollable, in which case…"

"In which case she's dead," Clee finished for him, knowing all of this for himself but being too emotionally involved to process his medical knowledge. "And even if she doesn't die she could be severely brain damaged."

House looked away from him for a moment, a refusal to deny what Clee had said. Instead he asked, "Where is Marilyn?"

"She went to the washroom a while a go," Clee told him, shaking his head in dismissal, "and hasn't returned since. Just as well; I'd probably tear her head off for allowing Jenny to get so sick without doing anything about it until it was…too late." Clee sprang up from the sofa. House figured he had to be running on nerves alone. He feared that no matter what happened with Jenny, once this immediate crisis was over Clee would completely collapse from adrenal exhaustion.

"Justin, sit down," House urged. "Your going to wear yourself out."

"I can't," Clee told him, shaking his head. "I won't, not until I receive word that they've stopped the bleeding and she's going to pull through this."

"Justin, what if—" House began only to be cut off by an angry Clee reeling around on him.

"Don't you goddamned say it, Greg!" he shouted. "You won't even _suggest_ that in front of me, you understand? I'm not going to lose Jenny! Although you probably hope that this is it for her because then you won't have any more competition for my time and attention once she's gone!"

House forced himself off the sofa as quickly as he could, gripping the handle of his cane in a vise-like hold. "Yeah, that's right!" he shouted back, his voice dripping with anger and sarcasm. "That's why I came when I found out—because I'm such a bastard that I'm waiting with bated breath for your little girl to croak so I can drag you home and hump the hell out of you! I don't give a damn that this is tearing your heart to shreds because the only person I care about is myself. If that's what you really believe about me then my coming here was a huge mistake!"

"Then leave!" Clee snarled, gesturing wildly at the door. "Go find your laptop and tell Wilson that you're done with me and free for him now!"

House recoiled slightly, his face contorted by shock and hurt. "You think that this is one big attempt on my part to have an excuse to dump you and run back to Wilson? Why would you think that? I had a chance to do that already and I chose you, remember?"

"That doesn't mean you haven't changed your mind," Clee argued, turning away from him and walking a few paces further away. "After all, you were the one to suggest involving Wilson in our lives again!"

"You moron!" House exclaimed, rolling his eyes in frustration. "I suggested that Wilson be consulted because of his expertise and proven competence as an oncologist, not because I want to start fucking him instead of you! Our arguing started because I wanted _more_ time with you, not _less_. I miss you so much, you idiot, that I can't sleep at night without you lying next to me. I don't want to lose you and what we have together!"

"What do we really have together, Greg?" Clee demanded harshly, his eyes colder than House had ever seen them. "We have a relationship where one of us has decided to lie and withhold information from the other. How can I believe anything you tell me now that I know you were deceiving me about Jenny's real chances of surviving? How do I know that you're being honest with me when you say you're over Wilson? For all I know you two are meeting over Skype on the sly, planning your life together once Jenny's dead and Wilson's discharged!"

"If that were true," House shot back, losing volume but not intensity, "why would I have bothered coming here at all today? I would already be on a plane to Houston to be with Wilson instead of here with you wanting to comfort you and support you. I'm not running away from you, Justin—you're _pushing_ me away!"

"God!" Justin shouted, gripping his head with both hands as if he were about to pull his hair out. "It's always all about _you_, _isn't_ it Greg? Get the hell away from me! I can't deal with you and your selfishness right now—I've got too much to deal with, what with my daughter dying and all. How you could be jealous of my sick daughter—"

Clee stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes shooting to the doorway. House turned to see Bell and Trent Murphy, chief of Surgeons, standing there. They were both still on their surgical scrubs, looking exhausted and defeated. House muttered a curse, closing his eyes and bowing his head; he could tell by the glossiness of Bell's dark eyes that Jenny was gone. He heard Murphy tell Clee that she'd died on the table, that the bleeding had been too extensive, and that it was unlikely that besides the initial headache she felt any further pain. He heard Bell tell him that Jenny was being taken to a special room and that he could go in to see her before she was sent to the morgue. House could hear Clee's soul-wrenching groan and the subsequent sobs. He wanted desperately to pull Clee into his arms and hold him tight.

House looked up tentatively at Clee, opening his eyes slowly. The younger man was standing with his hands covering his face. Bell hovered next to him now, her hand on his shoulder. She was softly comforting him with her words and gently moving him toward the door. As they passed House on their way out Clee lowered his hands and looked House in the eye. The eyes staring into the diagnostician's were empty, as if no soul or spark of life existed behind their watery depths. House was completely unaware of the tears running down his own face.

"Justin," House whispered. The other man's eyes turned cold before he looked away and left the room without another glance or word in House's direction.

House watched Clee go, and knew without any further doubt that he had lost him. Hurt gave way to anger, and all House wanted to do was trash the lounge, break every breakable object in sight and would have done that if Hutton and Stephania hadn't returned.

"What happened?" the psychiatrist asked, looking worried.

House looked from her to Stephania's sweet face and then to Hutton again.

"It's over," he said in defeat, and walked away. Where he was going, he didn't know, but he knew he just had to get the hell out of _there_. He felt like the walls were closing in on him and he needed to find somewhere he could breathe.

He didn't make it far, however, before he felt Hutton grab his sleeve to stop him.

"House," she told him, moving to stand in his path. Hutton's eyes were glistening but she managed to keep her deportment calm and under control. "Where do you think you're going? Justin—"

"Doesn't want me around," House coldly finished, trying to sidestep her.

"You don't know that," Hutton insisted, pursuing him as he made his way to the elevator. "His little girl just died. He has to be in a state of shock, saying things he doesn't really mean."

"Oh, he _meant_ it," House replied, growling a little when Hutton moved to stand between him and the elevator. "He told me to go away _before_ Murphy and Bell arrived to announce that Jenny was dead. After that he looked at me as if he believed _I_ had killed her with my own two hands. He's made it clear that he doesn't want me—_us_—anymore. I have to get the fuck out of here. Please don't make me physically remove you from my path."

"Well, that's exactly what you're going to have to do," Hutton told him, setting her jaw defiantly, "because if you think I'm going to allow you to leave here on your motorcycle in your current state of mind, you're sadly mistaken. I already have one friend dying; I don't need to lose another one! I'm afraid that if I let you leave this hospital alone, I'll never see you alive again. If I have to, I'll have you recalled right here and now, House, if that's what it takes to protect you from yourself!"

Before he could respond in any way to that, House felt a cool, small hand take hold of his. He was being double-teamed.

"Dr. House?" Stephania said softly and sniffled. House closed his eyes briefly; he knew he was sunk and what was worse, he'd been defeated by a teenage girl.

"I don't exactly know what's going on," Stephania continued, and he could tell by the sound of her voice that she was crying a little and sounded frightened, "but I don't want to see you hurt yourself. Please don't go like this. Who would I talk to about things I don't want Mom to know about if you get hurt or…" Her voice stopped. She sighed heavily. "Uncle Justin may not care about you anymore, but _I_ do. I know it's not the same but it's _something_, isn't it?"

Hutton bowed her head, pinching the bridge of her nose before looking up at him again, her eyes still glistening. He averted his gaze from hers; slowly, gently, he squeezed Stephania's hand and wondered exactly when it was that he'd become a complete sap. Maybe it was his desperate need to know that someone cared about him, that he wasn't going to end up completely alone again. House exhaled, rubbed his face with his free hand, and nodded.

"Two on one is not a fair fight," he told Hutton, finally meeting her gaze again.

"Who ever told you life was fair?" she softly replied, a sad smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She reached out and touched his shoulder, squeezing it. "Let's all three of us get out of here, hmm? We'll go to that pizzeria on Davis Ave. You know _you_ can always eat."

"Chocolate ice cream is great for break-ups," Stephania said with an air of authority that almost brought a smile out of House. "We can go to Baskin-Robbins for dessert. World Class Chocolate is the _best_."

House rolled his eyes. "Next you'll be suggesting we go home and watch sad chick-flicks and paint our toenails."

Hutton grinned. "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, He-Man. Okay, maybe not painting our toenails or chick-flicks, but what about the rest?"

"Don't you want to stick around for Justin?" House asked, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

"I don't think Justin is ready to acknowledge the rest of us right now," Hutton replied, and House thought he caught a touch of anger in her voice but he could have been mistaken. "I think that for now, you need us more."

House sighed, and then surrendered. He didn't know about needing them more, but he knew he definitely shouldn't be left alone to his own devises; he _really_ wanted to be alone to wallow in self-pity and booze, which he knew was the completely wrong thing for his wellbeing and liberty. He thought of Wilson and how much he knew the younger man looked up to him for his 'success'; he couldn't let him down.

"Fine," he agreed, "but you're paying."

**Sunday, August 30, 2010; 8:52 P.M.**

After eating too much World Class Chocolate ice cream and watching two action movies (House had _refused_ to watch chick-flicks no matter how much Stephania batted her eyelashes and pouted), Hutton and her daughter headed home. Before she passed through the front door, Hutton made House look her in the eye.

"If you get to the point where you feel like you're going to drink, take too much medication or in any other way harm yourself, stop and call me immediately," she instructed him. "I don't care what time it is, just call. If you don't feel safe enough to be left alone, tell me now and I'll stay and send Steph home. It won't be an imposition."

"I'll be fine," he told her quietly, looking past her into the night at Stephania, who was twirling in circles like a little girl and watching the skirt of her sundress rise and swish around her legs.

"Forgive me if I wonder about that," Hutton told him. "Just…just promise me that you'll call even if you just need to talk or listen to me talk. Okay?"

House knew that she wouldn't leave unless he agreed. Whether or not he actually would call should he reach that point of desperation he didn't know, but he would give her the answer she wanted so she would go and leave him alone. "Okay," he said quietly, with a nod. Hutton gave him an appraising look, trying to determine whether he was being honest with her or not. She reluctantly nodded, bid him goodnight, and stepped out of the house. Shutting the door behind her and locking it, House turned around to face his lonely home. Clee's things were in every room. When the shock of Jenny's death was over, he'd probably come by to pick up his stuff.

House decided to try to distract himself by going around with a storage container and packing up Clee's property. He had no illusions of the surgeon and him ever reconciling, not now, not when Clee blamed him, to an extent, for her death. House was the one who had suggested bringing Wilson onto the treatment team and had learned from him before Clee had that Jenny wouldn't make it. If he weren't already resentful about that, Clee would be eventually, even though it wasn't Wilson's fault that she had died. Everything had been done that could be done to help her, but her disease had been too far advanced by the time she went into treatment.

House picked up a framed photo of the two of them at the Fourth of July Barbecue before Justin had been nearly killed. They were both mugging for the shot, their arms around each other's waists and Clee's leg was tethered to House's cane for the three-legged race. House hadn't been allowed to participate on his own despite his argument that he was the only one there who really came close to qualifying a being three-legged. Clee was beaming and House had a pleasant smile on his lips. The frame was Justin's. House swallowed hard before placing the photo into the container as well; Justin could decide what he wanted to do with the print inside of it.

The bedroom was even harder to pack up. By the time he was through, Clee's clothes were backed in his luggage and the storage container was full. House took everything out to the garage and put it all on a shelving unit there until Clee came to get it. Exhausted physically and emotionally by this effort, his leg aching more than it had in a very long time, House took his evening meds (tempted to take more but resisting), and went to bed.

Not surprisingly sleep eluded him. The pain in his leg had all but disappeared, but the one in his heart ached relentlessly. It occurred to House that a drink or two might help him fall asleep, but he also knew that once he started it was unlikely he would stop at only two. The side of him prone to self-pity wanted to throw all of his effort and hard work away for good, and return to his alcohol and drug-hazed life; after all, without Clee and Wilson, what did he really have left to keep trying for?

The logical side of him regarded the emotional with disdain, even calling him an Emo and to grow up.

House grabbed the pillow that had been Clee's. He hadn't washed that pillowcase since the surgeon had last slept on it. Though fading, House could still catch the scent of Clee's shampoo, cologne and body scent. He hugged the pillow close to his face so that every breath he took carried with it a part of the man he loved and had inevitably lost.

Breaking down, House sobbed silently into the pillow and eventually cried himself to a very fitful sleep.

He jerked awake when his cell phone began to ring on the bedside table not a foot from his head. House rolled over to check the time on the alarm clock: 3:17 a.m. At first the significance of the ringtone playing didn't make it through his sleep-addled brain but after the fourth ring he realized it was Clee's ring. House reached for his phone then hesitated with his hand just an inch above it. He was frightened; what if this was Clee officially breaking it off with him? House knew that it was over between them, but as long as he didn't have Clee confirm it he could live in denial. After the fifth ring House took a deep breath and picked up the phone, answering the call.

"Justin?" House said softly.

"_Who am I speaking too_?" an unfamiliar male voice said in response, startling House.

_Who the hell is this and why is he calling me on Justin's phone?_ House wondered, sitting up in bed.

"Who the hell are you and why do you have Justin's phone?" House blurted, trying to hide his anxiety by sounding angry instead.

When the man introduced himself as a member of the Philadelphia police force House froze in fear. Something had happened to Clee, something bad, he just knew it

"Well, Officer Tilly, I'm Dr. Greg House, Dr. Clee's partner," House responded, his voice quavering slightly. "You haven't answer why you have Justin's phone." He grabbed at his ruined thigh and began rubbing at it as it began to really ache.

"_Since—Dr. Justin Clee, is it?—wasn't carrying any identification, we were hoping to find out the identity of the man involved since he was unable to answer for himself,_" Tilly told him somberly. "_There's been an…incident._"

House felt his stomach flip uncomfortably. The cop had said _incident_, not _accident_, right? That meant that Clee could be all right, just unable to identify himself. But if he was unable to identify himself, that meant something was wrong with him.

"Just tell me what happened?" House snapped, throwing off the blankets and slowly moving to sit on the edge of the bed; if he moved too quickly he would be in for a whole lot of hurt. As it was, his leg was objecting loud and clear.

"_Dr. House, your partner…_" Tilly's voice trailed off temporarily and he sighed in what sounded very much like regret, _"…I'm sorry to have to break the news to you like this, over the phone—_"

"Just tell me what the hell happened!" House roared, interrupting him; he was completely out of patience. His stomach was a giant knot that was painfully tightening with each passing second.

"_It appears that he fell from a bridge over one hundred feet into a gully, and…he passed away, Doctor,_" Tilly told him quietly. "_There is an investigation underway, but it looks, at this point, to be a suicide. I'm very, very sorry_."

Officer Tully went on to tell House that a woman walking along the bridge saw a jacket folded neatly on the ledge inside the pocket was only a cellphone. Curious, she'd looked around for the own and looked down to see the broken body of a man lying motionlessly on the rocks below. She'd called 9-1-1 for the police and an ambulance. A search and rescue team from the fire department had arrived with the other two, and by the time the body had been secured in a gurney and brought up, it had been clear that the ambulance wouldn't be necessary, and called the coroner's office instead.

House didn't really hear anything past Tully's heartfelt apology for the bad news. He had shut down, sort of, shock overwhelming him. The logical part of his brain that never quit processing knew that this was a normal reaction and part of the grief cycle, but House didn't fucking care at that moment if it was 'normal' or not. He felt numb and useless and hated that—hated it enough for anger to start bubbling underneath the shock, preparing to boil over

"_If you could come by as soon as possible to positively identify the body, it would be greatly appreciated_," Tully finished after giving him the address of the city morgue. "_Dr. House? Sir, are you still there?_"

Somewhere within him House found the ability to verbal respond. "Yeah—yes, I'm here. I'll be down there as soon…as soon as possible." With that he pressed End and sat there for several minutes simply staring into middle space. He was already cried out from earlier, and was still stunned enough to feel next to nothing, but he knew he had to get himself moving.

He couldn't go there alone. The thought seemed to pop into his head from out of nowhere and then remained there like a neon sign flashing on the back of his eyelids. Noticing that he was still holding his cellphone in his slack hand, he tightened his grip around it then dialed.

Hutton answered on the second ring. "_Mm, House? Talk to me._"

"I need you to come with me," House told her, his voice flat.

"_Go with you where? Are you all right? You sound funny._"

"_To identify the body,_" House told her, swallowing hard on the lump that was forming in his throat the more he talked. "_At the city morgue._"

The was a pause the length of a heartbeat before, "What _body? House? I'm on my way over!_"

"Justin's," House answered just before she hung up.

"_Oh my God,_" he heard her hushed voice respond. "_Justin's? Oh Christ…okay, um…I'm getting dressed and I'll be over there to, uh…Jesus, House, are you _sure_?_"

"No," he responded, wanting to but unable to tap into the bubbling wrath deep within him. "That's why I need to go identify the body. The cop who called did so on Justin's phone. I'll be ready when you get here."

With that House ended the call and rose to his feet slowly with the help of his cane. Without really thinking about it but basically running on automatic, House began to dress.

**Monday, August 31, 2010; 4:20 A.M.**

Very little was said during the car ride to the city morgue. Hutton had no idea what to say, in spite of all her years of training, and House appeared to be in too deep of shock to have anything to say. He stared straight out the front window as she drove, his features lit up by the low blue light of the SUV's dash display. There was no sign of any emotion evident on his rugged but handsome features. Hutton wondered if House was, in fact, not feeling anything currently or if he was simply that good at hiding his grief. She knew he could be a tough nut to crack when he wanted to be, but figured it was a combination of the two possibilities.

As for herself, Hutton was still reeling from House's announcement that Justin Clee could be dead and that he had to go to identify the body the police and rescue workers had found. As soon as she had reached House's, he had told her the bare bones about what had happened; perhaps that was only as much as he knew presently, too. The idea of Clee jumping off a bridge over a dried up ravine gulley to his death on the rocks and dirt below seemed impossible to believe. Clee committing suicide was alone something she had never even considered a possibility. If she had, she may have remained at the hospital with him last night after all.

_No, stop it!_ Hutton told herself, frowning slightly at the street she was navigating. _This is not your fault, don't you dare feel guilty! You had no idea Justin would do such a thing to himself, if the body in the morgue is, indeed, Justin._ It could be someone else, someone who stole Clee's coat and his cellphone was in the pocket. Justin could have been mugged—but not killed!—and his attacker had met his untimely death. Then again, if that were the scenario, the mugger most likely would have taken Justin's wallet. So where was his wallet with his ID anyway? And what about car keys? House hadn't mentioned anything about those…

"Stop with the guilt, already," House told her sharply. "I can feel it wafting over here from your side of the car."

It was so sudden that she actually yelped a little, jumping in her seat. Hutton turned her head briefly to look at him; the diagnostician was glaring at her with those icy blue eyes of his, and it felt like they were boring through her to her very thoughts, and that's how he knew she'd been feeling guilty.

Sighing, Hutton shrugged and returned her eyes to the street. "I was actually telling myself the same thing," she muttered and then added, "and you had better not be feeling guilty about this either, House. Look, it might not even be Justin—"

"It is," House said with such conviction that Hutton simply couldn't argue. "And…I don't feel _anything_. How fucked up is that?"

Tears threatened to blind Hutton and she blinked furiously to keep them at bay. "It's not fucked up at all; you know that. You know the stages of grief as well as I do. And you did the right thing when you called me, House. You showed great wisdom under extreme circumstances."

"Well goody for me," House sneered, turning his head and looking out his side window. "Aren't I the fucking hero? Give me a gold star for that one. No, wait, don't—because if I hadn't been so goddamned insensitive and selfish I would have been there for Justin, I would have kept him from self-destructing, or at least I would have tried. He'd still be alive." His voice broke slightly on the last word.

"Sounds like you're feeling guilty to me," Hutton told him. "But you weren't being selfish, House. You weren't insensitive nor did you abandon him. You were there for Justin as much as you could have been. He withdrew from you, his friends…everybody. You must not blame yourself!"

"I might have been able to stop him if I'd been with him last night!" House shouted; he wasn't angry with Hutton; he was angry with himself, with Jenny's death, with Clee for doing this and not caring about what effect it would have on the people left behind. Hutton was on the receiving end of his anger and grief simply because she was there with him at that moment. She knew that, and could take it, especially if it meant that he didn't turn that rage on himself and end up injuring himself as a result.

"You might have prevented him from killing himself last night," Hutton told him, keeping his voice calm, "but what about the next time he was alone—or the time after that? House, I've been a psychiatrist long enough to know one very important fact: if a person wants badly enough to kill him or herself, nothing anybody can do or say, short of putting them in a straitjacket and watching them every second, will be able to prevent them. You can't keep a suicidal person under constant watch every second of the day, every day, for the rest of their and your lives. Blaming yourself for Justin's death is bullshit, plain and simple. I expect more from you than falling for that trap."

"He was your friend," House commented, glaring at her—but overwhelming the anger in his icy blue eyes were curiosity and confusion.

Hutton nodded, swallowing hard against the sorrow that threatened to choke her. She blinked back tears. "He was a very dear friend…but he wasn't perfect by any means, House. Just like any of us he had his strengths and weaknesses. Justin could be very selfish and stubborn. If that body _is_ his, then I won't be able to help feeling angry at him for killing himself and thus not giving a shit about the pain he would be causing those of us who…" her voice trailed off as sadness threatened to overwhelm her. After taking a couple of deep breaths, she cleared her throat and continued softly, "Those of us who loved him. He was like a brother to me, and I'll miss him more than I can verbalize, but I certainly won't blame myself—or you—for his death."

House said nothing more until they reached the city morgue, but she could tell that his mind was spinning circles as he worked through the situation and what she'd said. There was such sorrow in his eyes that she couldn't look at him any longer for fear that just seeing his grief would cause her to begin to sob. She parked the car as close to the building as possible for House's sake; they walked in silence to the building, which naturally was closed at that time in the wee hours of the morning. There was a buzzer for after-hours visitors. House pressed it with his cane then kept his eyes on the button as if it was the most fascinating object he'd ever seen. Hutton was okay with the lack of eye contact and communication. This was an emotional moment for her, too, though she knew that her fear and pain couldn't compare to what House's was.

Almost immediately a security guard carrying an IPad emerged through an interior door and opened the exterior one. "Good evening," he said pleasantly but not too much so. How may I help you."

"I'm here to identify a body," House told him, his voice sounding deep and hollow. "My partner's. Doctors Gregory House and Olivia Hutton."

The security guard scrolled through a list on his IPad then nodded when his eyes caught the names, or perhaps only House's, since he had been the one called. May I see some I.D., sir?"

House grunted, pulling out his wallet and retrieving his driver's license. The guard looked at it for a moment and then nodded, standing back and holding the door open for the two of them. He then led House and Hutton down a series of corridors, into an elevator down a flight and then down another long, grey corridor to a small room that was decorated like any waiting lounge in a hospital or clinic setting. There was a threadbare sofa, two armchairs and a couple of tables with a lamp each. Ancient looking, tattered magazines littered the tables. What drew Hutton's attention was the large window set into the opposite wall. A curtain on the other side of the window was drawn shut.

House's attention was on it, too. He looked at the guard and shook his head frowning. "No. I don't want to view the body through glass. I want to go in there with it and see it unblocked by anything. I'm a doctor, for Christ's sake! I've seen more corpses and cadavers than I can count in my career."

He was really angry, and Hutton walked up to stand beside him, placing a hand on his arm. House shook her off without looking at her; he was too busy glaring at the guard.

The guard, however, seemed unaffected by House's ire. He simply nodded and replied calmly, "I'm sure you'll be allowed to if you so desire, Doctor. You just have to wait here until the on-duty M.E. comes to get you. It shouldn't take longer than five minutes; it's been a slow night around here."

"Thank you," Hutton told him with a nod. The guard gave her a wan smile before leaving the room. House began to pace, his head bowed, his eyes staring blindly at the floor.

Hutton sighed. She sat down in one of the armchairs and leaned her back against the seat, closing her eyes. She was absolutely exhausted to begin with, but this news…the possibility that Clee's broken, lifeless body was on the other side of the curtain—he was her age, far too young too die.

She started when her cellphone buzzed, indicating that she'd received a text message. She pulled it out of her pocket and read the text from Anderson.

_**R U there yet?**_

She typed in her response. **Yes. Waiting for M.E. House is tensed up like an overly tightened guitar spring. Afraid he's going to snap.**

_**What about you? You OK?**_

**Not sure. Don't want it to be Justin!**

_**Me, neither, Babe. This is fucked up!**_

**I want to be strong 4 House, but afraid I'll cry if it's Justin. I'm angry and sad, Gage.**

_**Wish I wasn't on call so I could be there 4 U.**_

Before Hutton could text back House spoke up from across the room. "Nice time to have text-sex, Hutton," he sneered. "Tell Anderson to zip up and wait for later, after they have Justin back in the fridge."

Hutton cast him a look of consternation before typing into her phone, **G2G, Honey.**

_**Text me later when U know. Luv U.**_

**Luv U 2.**

She put her phone away. "We weren't having text-sex, House. Gage was checking in to see if we knew anything yet. Why don't you sit down a give your leg a break?"

House shook his head, continuing to pace. "It'll stiffen up. You'll have to carry me out of here if it does that. Helps with the pain."

"So does medication—or talking about what's going on in your head," she told him but didn't have the heart to quibble. She knew that House's heightened pain right now was due to his emotional turmoil. There was no doubt that House did suffer from very real, very intense physical pain, but he'd been doing very well with his pain management regimen lately; she suspected his emotional vulnerability was lowering his normal pain tolerance levels, screwing with the effectiveness of his meds.

"Nothing to talk about," House quipped, forcing an air of nonchalance about him. "My lover is suspected of having jumped to his death like a goddamned lemming and his body might be on the other side of that wall as we speak. Wonder if he landed face-first? Well, it doesn't matter. Even if his face is too fucked up for a positive identification, I know every freckle and dimple on his ass." He voice broke with the last word and he turned away from her. She rose from the chair and approached him as a young man wearing a lab coat, polo shirt and blue jeans with sneakers appeared in the doorway. He looked like he was barely old enough to drink, much less be a licensed M.E.

"Excuse me," he said softly, "uh, Dr. House?"

House looked up at him with intense blue eyes. Hutton stopped next to House at his elbow.

"That's me. I want to see the body up close, not through a window."

The young medical examiner nodded. "Of course. I'm Dr. Gerrold. Please follow me."

House pointed at Hutton with his thumb. "She's coming, too."

Gerrold looked at her, his eyes flicking to parts of her body besides her eyes, and nodded. "Whatever."

"Gee, thanks," Hutton muttered under her breath at the young man's lack of enthusiasm regarding her.

House obviously had heard her and replied in a whisper, "Relax, Hutton. Besides, you're almost old enough to be his mother."

"Shut up, House," she snapped, rolling her eyes, forgetting for a split second that they were heading to the next room to view what was most likely Justin Clee's body. Once they entered the small antechamber just off the refrigerated holding room, however, all banter stopped. House hesitated just inside the doorway a moment, staring at the table where a body lay underneath a while drop sheet. Hutton noticed his Adam's apple bob a few times as well as the slight tremor that overtook his entire body.

She reached out and took his hand, needing a little physical contact and support for herself. He looked at her briefly and their gazes locked. He gave her a nearly imperceptible nod and allowed her to continue to hold his hand. Gerrold had already moved to the table and waited for them to join him. House led the way.

He stood looking down at the covered corpse for a moment or two before nodding at Gerrold, indicating that he was ready. Hutton forced herself to keep her eyes open and to not look away or overtly react. The M.E. took hold of the corners of the sheet and pulled them back to expose the naked, bloodied, damaged head and shoulders of the body.

House's entire body shuddered. Hutton, seeing enough, released House's hand and turned away from the gruesome visage. She didn't see House close his eyes momentarily before reaching out a hand and ghosting it over the broken, misshapen facial and cranial bones and through the short blond hair before resting it on the grey cast cheek. The features were distorted yet still recognizable.

House nodded once, curtly, and then grabbed the sheet and pulled it over Clee's head again. "It's Justin," House murmured. Gerrold nodded not unsympathetically.

Hutton looked up through teary eyes as House limped past her quickly and out of the room. She followed him, finding it difficult to keep up with House in spite of his disability. Quickly she realized that he was headed to the public washrooms at the end of the corridor.

"House, wait—!" she pled but he ignored her, entering the men's room without so much as a glance in her direction. The door slowly closed on her face. Hutton lifted a hand and rested on the surface of the door, debating whether she should go in there and make certain that House didn't do anything stupid or allow him a few minutes of privacy to gather himself together and compose himself. Tears ran unabated down her cheeks.

She decided that she would allow him a couple of minutes of privacy, but if he didn't come out or otherwise make any indication that he was alright, she would go in there to make certain that he was.

She wiped her face with her hand and slid down the wall next to the door until she was seated on the cold tile floor. She pulled out her cellphone, her hands shaking, and sent a text to Anderson.

**Gage, it's Justin. OMFG. I don't know if I can do this with House. I don't think I'm going to be able to help him right now. I think I need to call in Darryl.**

About a minute later her phone buzzed and vibrated.

_**Jesus, Liv. Fuck. I'm calling Traynor and calling in the favor he owes me to cover for me and I'm coming to you. Do call Nolan. Want me to?**_

**No, I'll make the call, thanks, Hon. Meet us back the acreage. House has hidden in the men's room and I have to make certain he's ok. I can't believe this is really happening! If you get there first, let the kids sleep. We'll tell them in the morning.**

_**OK.**_

Hutton moved from Messaging to Dialer on her phone and hit Darryl Nolan's speed dial number. It only rang twice before being picked up.

"_Dr. Nolan_."

Hutton took a deep breath to steady herself and then told the older psychiatrist everything that had happened. "I think I need you to step in tonight, Darryl," she told him, her voice quavering. "I think I have to hand this off. I'm…sorry."

"_No need, Liv_," Nolan assured her gently. "_Are you going to be alright staying with House until I get there_?"

"Yes," she answered after a shuddering sigh. "I'll let security know you're coming. Thank you, Darryl."

**Monday, August 31, 2010; 5:59 A.M.**

House sat on the floor of the wheelchair-accessible booth in the men's washroom, his right leg extended out in front of him and the up and bent at the knee. It was eerily similar to where he'd found himself a few months back, after the crane collapse in Trenton and the death of the young woman whose leg House had been forced to amputate to free her from the disaster site. And like that night, House wished he could simply take a bottle full of pills to kill the pain he was feeling, even if it meant that he died with it.

He didn't have pills with him; nor did he have anything sharp to open his veins. The rational part of his brain knew that harming himself wasn't the solution. It wouldn't change anything that had happened and wouldn't resurrect Clee from the dead. If it could have he would have found a scalpel in one of the autopsy labs and done himself in already. It would only make him as selfish as his late lover had been when he'd jumped from the bridge. He would only further hurt people who were already reeling from Jenny's and now Clee's death. He owed Hutton and her kids better than that.

House just couldn't believe Justin was gone. He knew it to be a fact, but belief wasn't always based on fact.

So all he could do was weep silently away from anyone who could see or hear him. House hugged himself, imagining that he was holding Clee in his arms, the younger man alive and well and staring at him with eyes filled with love and desire. They had known each other such a short time, really, but theirs had been a whirlwind romance (House rolled his eyes at himself for such fluffy, sentimental thoughts) that had burned white hot before cooling quickly due to circumstances beyond their control. House had become adjusted to having someone to come home to, to share his thoughts with, to cuddle up to at night. Clee's death left a huge, gaping maw in his heart and hurt almost as much as it had when first Stacy and then Wilson had torn his heart into two; the difference there was they were at least still alive. There was no possibility left that House would ever see Clee again; he was gone forever.

Earlier, Hutton, to her credit, had left him alone for a while to grieve alone but when he'd remained in the washroom too long she had come in to check on him and make certain that he hadn't found a way to hurt himself. She had tried to convince him to come out of the booth and talk, but House hadn't wanted to talk, and he still didn't. Talking wouldn't make him feel better, not this time.

However, time was getting along and House was about ready to come out of hiding so Hutton could drive them home. Arrangements had to be made for the disposition of Clee's body. His lawyer had to be contacted and the will brought out of the vault. House supposed that there would have to be some kind of funeral, but he really didn't give a fuck about such things and hoped that someone else would step in and make the arrangements.

He pulled himself up to his feet using his cane and the safety bar screwed to the wall of the cubicle. He walked out of the cubicle and went to the sink where he ran the cold water and splashed it onto his tear-stained face, hoping that it would wash away the evidence of his crying. He was drying his face with paper toweling when he heard the door open again and footfall approach. When he looked up he realized it was Nolan who had come in instead of Hutton.

"Where's Hutton," House demanded, his voice gravelly.

"She's upset about the death of her friend and asked me to take over because she can't be objective enough right now," the psychiatrist told him honestly. "She's headed back home. I'll take you home when you feel you're ready for that."

House nodded, processing that. He'd been so focused on his own grief that he'd completely forgotten that Clee's suicide had had a huge impact on her, too. If he hadn't been hurting as much as he was he would have felt a little guilty, but House simply wasn't capable of feeling that emotion along with all of the others at that point.

"I haven't taken anything," House informed him with a sigh, rubbing his face tiredly. "I'd like to, though. To make…to make all of this just go away."

"But you know better than that," Nolan told him. "You know that becoming oblivious about something doesn't change it or make it go away."

House nodded slightly, avoiding Nolan's gaze. "I know. I've been trying to figure out what I should have done that I didn't do that could have prevented all of this."

"Have you come to any conclusions?"

"No," House admitted, sounding exhausted. "If I had tried to stay with Justin earlier, he probably would have pushed me away again. As for Jenny…I suggested Wilson because I truly did believe that if anyone could successfully treat her, he could. He didn't screw up, either. Jenny died because she contracted a disease that her moron mother and stepfather failed to do anything about until it was too late. I cared about Justin, but the bastard out-did me on the selfishness scale and left me alone."

"You cared about him?" Nolan echoed. "You mean you loved him, don't you?"

House didn't respond immediately, but when he did it was only in the form of a curt nod.

"His suicide is no more your fault than Jenny's death was—or Wilson's fault, for that matter," Nolan told him calmly.

A sigh escaped House; he met Nolan's gaze and nodded. "I know." He said it as if it was one of the greatest epiphanies he'd ever had, and perhaps it was—not an epiphany that led to a diagnosis, but one about _him._ Those tended to be considerably more rare.

"Ready to go home?" Nolan asked him.

"There are arrangements—" House began but stopped when he saw Nolan shake his head.

"You can make those decisions tomorrow, after some sleep," the psychiatrist told him authoritatively. "Tonight you're going to go home. I'm going to give you a mild sedative and you're going to sleep. Tomorrow we'll talk more and you can begin making the necessary arrangements then. I'm certain that you will have help if you need it. Liv will contact Dr. Roth about the situation and recommend that you be granted a bereavement leave at least until after the funeral, longer if you need it. She tells me that Dr. Chase is capable of holding down the fort while you are away."

"If he doesn't burn it down first," House grumbled, but really, he did trust Chase to be temporarily in charge; he knew his former duckling would contact him if anything arose with a patient that he couldn't deal with on his own. It was unfortunate that Chase was still mourning the loss of Thirteen as well. Grief had its own timetable.

House allowed himself to be driven home by Nolan, who came in long enough to administer a shot of Valium he'd brought with him. Before House allowed him to do so, however, he listened to the phone message that had been left on the answering machine.

It was from Wilson, recorded just after House had left to go to the city morgue.

"_House…uh, hi. I just received word from Dr. Bell about Jenny's death. I called to send my condolences to Justin and you. I'm sorry I couldn't perform a miracle for her. I would have if I could have. Um, if either of you have further questions or just want…you know, to talk, don't be shy about calling me. Take care_."

House was about to erase the message, his fingering hovering over the appropriate button when he stopped himself, uncertain exactly why. Leaving the message on the machine he readied himself for bed then allowed Nolan to give him the injection before the psychiatrist allowed himself out and headed home, leaving House to fall asleep in the bed he would share with Justin no more.


	67. Chapter 67 Part 3 Ch 33

**Title:** **Resurrection**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer**: House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N**: This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler** **Alert**: This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

Word Count:

**Rating**: **M (NC-17) **for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Thirty-Three: Monday, August 31, 2010; 12:33 P.M.**

House awoke to the sound of someone pumping the ball-inflator to an old-style sphygmomanometer and the sensation of increasing pressure on his right upper arm. He slowly opened one eye, the lid of which feeling like it weighed a ton. Everything was blurry and he closed that eye only to open both of them and blink a few times to clear his vision. It took him a moment to realize that he was lying flat on his back in his bed, in his own bedroom, with the last person on earth he wanted to see with him in such a place seated in a stiff backed chair next to his bed taking his blood pressure.

Nolan slowly turned the screw on the pressure valve to slowly release air from the cuff around House's arm. He had a stethoscope in his ears, the drum of which was pressed against the inside of House's elbow, his dark eyes watching the needle on the gage as it slowly descended. Once he had the reading, Nolan released the valve all the way and quietly unwrapped the cuff, obviously attempting not to disturb House' sleep and failing.

"What is it?" House demanded, slurring slightly. He'd been given a hefty dose of tranquilizer the night before and apparently it hadn't all been metabolized yet. His mind felt sluggish along with the rest of him, including his mouth.

"One thirty over ninety," the psychiatrist told him, putting the blood pressure apparatus back into his black doctor's bag. "Not too bad, but not great either. Good morning."

"Is not," House replied with a sigh. "You're here." _And Justin isn't_, his mind finished. "What time is it?"

"Around twelve-thirty in the afternoon," Nolan responded, putting his stethoscope away as well. "How are you feeling, physically, that is?"

"Like I've been drinking all night and have had only two hours sleep before I have to get up to go to work," House admitted, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

"You've had a little more sleep than that," Nolan informed him, smiling slightly, "but you're pretty close to the truth. Try to get some more sleep." He made to leave but House stayed him with a firm hand on his forearm, preventing him from rising out of his chair.

"Justin is dead." House wasn't certain why he'd just felt the need to say that to the other man, but he had and did. It was as if that fact was finally sinking in, and it hurt. He realized he was still gripping Nolan's arm and released his hold, allowing his hand to fall limply beside him on the bed.

"I know," Nolan answered gently with a nod. "I'm sorry, Greg."

House blinked a couple of times as his mind gradually acknowledged that his psychiatrist sounded sincere.

"I feel groggy," House said next.

"It's the diazepam," Nolan informed him despite the fact that House already knew that. "Go back to sleep and when you wake again we'll talk."

House didn't argue. He knew that there were things to be done, arrangements to be made, people to call—all of which he didn't want to do—but they would have to wait because he was still too stoned from the Valium Nolan had given him to do anything but give in and fall asleep again.

The next time he woke the sun shone through the slight crack between the curtains and it was lower in the sky. House was alone in his bedroom. He reached over to the nightstand and turned the clock so that he could read the time: 3:03 p.m. With a sigh, House began his stretching of his bad leg in preparation of getting out of bed and actually using it. He didn't feel groggy anymore, and knew he had to face reality no matter how horribly it sucked. He managed to get as far as sitting up with his legs over the side of the bed when there was a knock on the bedroom door.

"Who is it?" House responded numbly.

The door opened a bit, just enough for Stephania to speak through.

"Are you decent, Dr. House?" she asked, her voice soft.

"Yeah," House murmured, rubbing his face with his hand.

"May I come in?" Her voice was small, like that of a much younger girl.

"If you have to," House replied. The door opened the rest of the way, and Stephania entered the dimly lit room. She approached him tentatively, wringing her hands in front of her. Once she reached the end of the bed she stopped.

"You're probably not really thinking much about food right now," she said, "but when you're interested there are some sandwiches made and waiting for you. Dr. Nolan is on his way over. He had to leave to see a patient but he's on his way back."

House could tell by the sound of her voice that she had been crying recently. He knew the appropriate thing to do would have been to thank her or acknowledge her in some way, but House couldn't muster up the energy it would have taken to do that. He stared at the far wall, his hand kneading at the aching muscle in his bad leg without him being conscious of the fact. He didn't want to sit around a living room with other mourners, talking about Clee and making preparations for his funeral. House wasn't even certain he was going to attend it. He was done with denial and was well into the anger stage of his grief. He couldn't see the point of attending the funeral of a man who had taken the coward's way out, not giving a fuck about what his suicide would do to those he left behind—more specifically, what it would do to _him. _He had nothing good to say, and refused to say anything bad about Clee, either.

He wished he could get his hands on something that would send him into a state of blissful oblivion. To hell with his recovery! What the hell was his sobriety worth if it meant he had to hurt even more than he had before? Happiness? Where was his happiness now? Snatched away again, that's where. It had died with Justin Clee.

"Well," Stephania said when House failed to respond to her, "that's all I wanted…I guess."

"You can leave now," House told her, his voice hard. If she hung around much longer House knew he would lash out at her simply because she was there and an easy target for the wrath that was building up inside of him. He didn't want to do that to her.

Peripherally he could see her nod and back out the way she'd come. There was a barely a click from the door latch as Stephania shut it behind her.

As much as he knew he wanted to be alone, House knew what he _needed_ was exactly the opposite. Still, he had no idea how to behave appropriately around other people in circumstances where emotions ran raw and rampant—he never had. It was better for everyone _else_ involved if he remained a recluse.

He thought about the message Wilson had left on his answering machine. The younger man hadn't yet heard about Clee's death, having called to share his sympathies over Jenny's death. The only person who had ever come close to being able to tolerate House in circumstances such as these (and vice versa) was Wilson, and suddenly House's heart ached to hear the oncologist's voice. It wasn't that he wanted Wilson now that Clee was gone, at least, not in _that_ way, but Wilson represented a familiar source of comfort that just wasn't possible to achieve with his Philadelphia friends and acquaintances. Wilson would always be his default go-to person, whether that was wise to still be the case or not.

After a few moments of staring at the phone on his nightstand, debating whether or not he should do it, House finally decided to call Wilson back. His need to hear Wilson's voice outweighed his need to get through this loss on his own without using his former best friend as an enabler or crutch. Then again, wasn't that what most people did when they were in a time of loss and grief—turning to the people that meant the most to them for comfort, that is? Did that count as enablement?

House grabbed the phone and dialed before he could second-guess himself; his gut was telling him this was the right thing to do for himself, and he couldn't see how it would be all that harmful to Wilson in this instance. After all, Wilson had been the one to reach out to him concerning Jenny.

_Quit over-thinking it!_ House told himself with a sigh and a roll of his eyes. He worried his lip a little as he listened to the ringing on the other end of the call and waited impatiently for the phone to be picked up. He was about to hang up after the fifth unanswered ring when someone finally answered and sought out Wilson for him.

"Hey, House," Wilson said in greeting when he picked up the call. "I'm glad you got my message. I just wanted Justin and you to know how sorry I am that I couldn't do more to save Jenny."

"Justin is dead," House blurted, kicking himself for not saying hello first—but then again, this was Wilson, and since when had he and Wilson ever worried about the same normal social conventions that governed the interactions of others. Just saying those three words nearly choked House, and he had to swallow hard and bite the inside of his cheek to keep his composure."

There was a moment or two of stunned silence from Wilson's end before he responded. "Jesus…House, I…tell me he didn't…"

"He did," House replied, swallowing again. His breathing was picking up but remained shallow because grief was taking up any spare space there might have been in House's chest, making it difficult, or so it felt, for his lungs to expand. "A goddamned swan dive off on overpass…the i-idiot…"

A tear escaped House's eye and he quickly brushed it away even though no one was around to see it anyway.

"God, House," Wilson murmured, sounding genuinely shaken and concerned at the same time. "You're not alone right now, are you? Look, I know you. I know you turn inwards and cut everybody else off when something like this happens and if there's one thing I've learned here in treatment is that you mustn't do that. You also turn to ways of shutting off your brain and your feelings—"

"I'm sober, Wilson," House insisted, knowing that with his track record he had no right to feel insulted by Wilson's suggestion. "I'm alone right now in my room but there are others elsewhere in my house and Nolan has been keeping a close eye on me. I can't take a crap without him knowing about it."

Wilson sighed audibly. "Good, that's…that's a good thing, House. You've got some good people there you can lean on. I know you're not very comfortable doing that, but you need to right now. I just wish…well, I wish I had been able to help Jenny. If she hadn't died—"

"Yeah, because you're God and you can turn back the hands of time and convince her idiotic mother and stepfather to get her in to see a doctor before the cancer progressed too far to be stopped," House sneered. "You're Messiah complex is still intact, I see. You did everything you could have. I didn't call to blame you for what happened to either Jenny or Justin. I called because…because…well, shit, this makes me sound like a pussy, but…I guess I called because I needed to hear the sound of your voice, but not if you're going to use your voice to start blaming yourself and performing verbal self-flagellation with it."

"Okay, okay," Wilson responded, "you're right. I was falling back into that trap. I'm sorry…and I'm glad to hear from you, too. I'll always be here for you, House…but I think we have to be mindful of the time we spend in each other's company, be it over the phone, or Skype or face to face, right now, so soon after Justin's death. It would be too easy for your strong emotional state right now to—"

"Yeah," House agreed thoughtfully, stopping him in mid-sentence, "I know what you're going to say, and you're right. I just needed to talk to someone that didn't remind me about Justin."

"In that case," Wilson said, and House could hear the smile in his voice, "I'm glad I can help."

House was silent a moment. "I could never fully understand how you felt after Amber died," he admitted, saying it before he could censor his own thoughts. "I'd loved and lost, but never to death. I'm sorry for the rotten things I said during that time."

"I've already forgiven you for that, House," Wilson assured him gently, "a long time ago. There's no way anyone can understand the kind of pain one feels when a lover dies until it happens to him. I'm sorry you had to find out. I'm sorry you've had to find out about a lot of things the hard way."

There was silence between the two of them again for nearly a minute, but it wasn't an uncomfortable pause. In fact, House didn't feel as lonely as he had just seconds before. He'd missed this between Wilson and him, this ability to just be quiet and be and not worry about what the other person might think or feel because everything that needed to be said had been and it was enough.

"I guess I should join the others, now," House said reluctantly, not wanting the call to end but knowing that it must for the best of both of them. "Funeral arrangements, contacts to make. Fuck, Wilson, I haven't a clue where to start. I just want to play my piano and block out the world until it all just goes away."

"I know," Wilson told him, and House knew that he _did_ know, and it, too, was enough. "Lean on your friends, House. Don't try to get through this alone. And anytime you just need to—I don't know, hear my voice?—you have my number."

"Same here," House told him, sighing. "Talk to you again soon."

"I look forward to it," Wilson told him, his voice sincere.

House hung up the phone, stared at it for several seconds as he allowed his thoughts to drift away, and then brought his mind back to the present. Setting the phone aside, House headed to his bathroom to take a shower and prepare himself for the unpleasant tasks he had waiting for him.

**Monday, August 31, 2010; 4:45 P.M. (Central time)**

Wilson was awakened from his short nap by the sound of an air raid siren blaring somewhere outside his open window. He sat up, still dopy, trying to figure out what was going on. He could here calm but serious voices of clinic staff and patents as they left their rooms and headed the same direction down the corridor and past Wilson's door. At that moment, Alex opened Wilson's door and stuck his head in.

"You need to come with the rest of us to the storm shelter now," Alex told him urgently, "There was a tornado sighting three miles outside of Houston. That siren is the tornado warning."

Taking no time to grab anything to take with him, Wilson slipped on his shoes and followed Alex out of his room and down the corridor. Staff ushered them down the stairs quickly and efficiently while maintaining order and preventing panic from taking hold. They descended all the way to the basement of the facility and into a concrete and steel reinforced room that held sofas and chairs, medical supplies, emergency water storage and other provisions. There were also battery packs to operating lighting and ventilation as well as heat in case the city's power grid was affected by natural or unnatural causes. There was a shortwave radio on a stand in one corner of the room. The room itself was sparse, not built for comfort, and forced everyone to share their personal space a little more than usual, but not to the point of engendering claustrophobia in the otherwise healthy individual. Wilson was impressed.

He found himself being led by Alex to a sofa on the far side of the room. They fit five of them on a four-seat Chesterfield, Alex and Wilson sandwiched between two female patients.

There was nothing to do down there but talk or think while they waited for the storm to pass and the all-clear signal to be given. Wilson wasn't completely ignorant of the power and danger a tornado could wield, but he wasn't nearly as accustomed to them where he lived than they were here in Houston, or part of Tornado Alley, as Alex told him with a quiet chuckle.

Wilson didn't respond to his therapist, feeling crawly just sitting next to the man. It had become increasingly apparent over the weeks Wilson had been at Silver Springs that the psychologist was sexually attracted to Wilson, and was growing increasingly more touchy-feely and overt with his flirting when he knew that there were no other staff or patients around to notice. Wilson did not find himself the least bit attracted to the man and found his flirtation and whole-body sweeps with those beady little eyes of his quite discomforting to say the least.

It was almost ten minutes in to their refuge in the basement when the electricity failed and the lights went out. The tornado must have damaged part of the infrastructure of the electrical grid not too far from them to cause the failure. Fortunately there were emergency lights and power thanks to batteries but in the few seconds it took for the battery back-ups to come on, Wilson felt Alex's hand come to rest lightly on his knee, then slide up his leg to his inner thigh, just inches from Wilson's testicles. A shiver of revulsion ran up and down Wilson's spine, and he felt as if he was going to puke. The sense of being violated by someone he was supposed to be able to trust left him anxious, on the verge of a panic attack. When Alex's pinky touched the fabric of Wilson's pants lying over his balls Wilson grabbed the hand with a crushing grip and bent Alex's fingers backward until there were two or three popping sounds and the therapist cried out in pain. That was when all the lights, now powered by battery reserve, flickered on to find Alex holding his right hand in his left, his face and body contorted in pain and Wilson standing over him, hands on hips and face flaming red with ire.

Wilson pointed a shaking finger at him. "You ever try to touch my balls again and I'll do more than just dislocate a couple of your fingers, you sick fuck!" he said, his voice dangerously soft, but loud enough to be heard by everybody in the room, including the Chief Administrator, who first looked to Wilson and then to Alex, his face expressing his expectation of an explanation _now_.

"He's lying!" Alex told anyone and everyone in the room. "I caught him with alcohol on our last outing and I was going to put him on report. He told me he'd sleep with me if I kept quiet about it. When I told him I wouldn't I guess he decided to try to frame me for unprofessional conduct."

"You lying bastard!" Wilson responded, angrier now than he had been in a very long time and allowing that anger to come out rather than bottling it up until he became a human Mt. St. Helens.

"Enough!" Dr. Barons, the administrator cut in sharply. "This is neither the time nor place to discuss this. For now, Alex, you should move over here and create space between yourself and James. James, I want to see both you and Alex in my office immediately following this storm."

Alex strode angrily across the room and sat down on a hard-backed chair. As another doctor examined the damage Wilson had inflicted upon him, Alex continued to glare at Wilson for the rest of the time they were forced to spend in that storm bunker. It would be laughable, Wilson mused wryly, if this had been happening to someone other than him. He didn't look forward to defending himself and his actions against the lies of his addictions therapist. The word of a recovering alcoholic simply didn't carry the weight the word of his molester, his psychotherapist, did. Wilson couldn't see anything coming out of this situation that would benefit him and rued his decision not to go sooner to a member of the administration with his concerns over Alex's increasingly inappropriate conduct concerning him.

**Friday, September 4, 2010; 4:10 P.M. **

House sat at the bar, nursing his club soda and lime and wishing that it were a double bourbon or scotch, neat. The funeral had been hell, just sitting there receiving the curious and hateful looks from the Clee family while person after person went up to the podium at the funeral home and eulogized the man and his young daughter (buried together as per Justin's instructions in the note found on him when he had been found post-suicide) who had been their beloved family members, friends, lover, pupil, doctor and colleague. House had opted not to say anything, not wanting to risk breaking down in public.

Afterwards, as everybody headed to their cars for the procession to the graveyard, Justin's father (who had already had a few under his belt before arriving at the memorial) tried to pick a fistfight with House, who had simply cut him down with scathing words but refused to be baited into hitting him. Justin's step-brother dragged Clee senior away, glaring at House as if it was his fault that Justin and Jenny were dead and the deceased had had such a dysfunctional family of origin.

Hutton and Bonnar had attended to House's every need and flanked him protectively throughout the proceedings; Nolan had been absent due to an emergency with one of his patients at Mayfield, not that House had cared whether he was there or not. The hardest part for House had been watching the funeral home personnel crank the coffin bearing both father and daughter down into the grave following the graveside service. House had kept a stiff upper lip, but just barely.

Bailey's Pub, Justin's favorite watering hole, had been taken over for the day for the wake. The atmosphere was lighter than House had expected, though. Most people present controlled their drinking, choosing to reminisce about the good times with Justin and Jenny while sober enough to do so. House's team members were in attendance and Chase found his way to House, sitting on the stool next to him. House acknowledged him with a nod. It hadn't been too long ago that Chase had been mourning the loss of Hadley in the same capacity House was mourning Clee.

"Going to tell me you know how I feel?" House asked him, taking a sip of his soda water and making a face. He set the glass down and pushed it away.

"Nope," Chase answered, wrapping his hands around his drink. "Just came over to tell you that we've got plenty of work back at the hospital for you to lose yourself into when you're ready."

House looked at him and then smirked, nodding. "I need the distraction. Hutton's clinging is driving me insane."

"She means well, I'm sure," Chase responded with a shrug. "She just doesn't know you like I do. Plus, she's probably making certain you don't get the opportunity to jump off the wagon head first."

"I would have done that by now if I had any intention of doing so," House commented. "I'll be back Monday. Anything interesting?"

"Six year old boy oozing blood out of every orifice with advanced male-pattern balding and a fever that spikes every time we turn on the lights."

House's eyes lit up. "Cool! I'll stop by the hospital after this shin-dig."

Chase smiled a little, nodding. "I thought you'd say so. I left the file on your desk."

"Going back to work so soon?" Linda Bonnar asked from behind them. She limped up to the bar with Gary at her side. They sat on House's other side. She hung her cane next to House's on the bar rail. "Is Xander being that much of a taskmaster?"

"Cool case," House replied. "Bleeder kid who's balding and has a fever that is light-reactive. Can't turn that up. Besides, sitting around doing nothing isn't going to bring Justin and Jenny back or keep me from getting blotto the moment Hutton's or Nolan's back is turned. I need the distraction."

"Makes sense to me," Gary Bonnar commented before taking a pull off of his bottle of beer. "Nothing worse than sitting around with nothing to do but think about what you lost."

"Exactly," House agreed, nodding. "Besides, Hutton's practically living with me and when she's not around she had Steph babysitting. You haven't exactly been making strange either." He nodded in Linda's direction. "Go finish your bucket list while you still can. I'll be fine."

Linda reached over and placed a hand on his briefly. "I know you will. And we aren't staying long, just a couple more days."

"She's avoiding telling Liv that," Gary admitted. "There will be tears."

"Women," Chase murmured, shaking his head.

"Well, since I'm outnumbered, I won't try to argue," Linda Bonnar said with a sigh. "Besides, she _will_ cry. She's afraid I'll die abroad and she won't get to say good-bye."

"Can you guarantee her that you won't?" House asked, his tone harsher than he had intended. "She loves you. Do her a favor—make sure she gets a chance to say good-bye. It's the fucking shits to be denied that…." His voice trailed off because House wasn't certain he could go on without displaying emotions he didn't want to become public. He moved suddenly, climbing off the stool and grabbing his cane. "I've had enough of this. I'm leaving."

"I was about to, too," Chase said in agreement, standing as well. "Want me to drop you off at the hospital on my way home?"

"Sounds good," House agreed. He followed Chase to the door but was stopped by Hutton.

"Leaving so soon?"

He looked at her, swallowing the sharp comment he'd just about made, reminding himself that she was trying to help him. "Have a new patient, a seriously ill six-year-old-boy. Chase offered to drop me off at the hospital where I'll peruse the file and if it qualifies I'll be starting it immediately. Don't start—I need to get my mind off of…" he looked around at the gathered mourners, "…all of this."

She nodded. "You're right. I've had about enough of death myself for a while."

House noticed her glance in Bonnar's direction as she said that but made no mention of it. "Goodnight, Hutton. Don't wait up looking for me to arrive by taxi onto the yard. If I take the case I probably won't be leaving the hospital tonight."

She nodded, gave his arm a quick squeeze, and then left him to go visit with Linda and Gary. House beat Chase out the doors of the bar and to the younger man's car, taking a deep breath of air that was fresher than what had been inside the building. This was what he needed: puzzles to distract him from memories that he couldn't face without pain or do anything about preventing. He was alone now, again, and that was the way it was going to be for a while, perhaps for good, so he would immerse himself in his work. At least there he could make a difference.

**Monday, October 5, 2010; 2:02 P.M.**

House carried his cafeteria tray loaded with food in his left hand as he and his cane made their way to where Anderson, Hutton and Roth were seated across the commissary. He sat down without being invited, as was expected, and immediately set to eating his dry Reuben sandwich while listening to the conversation already underway at the table.

"I can't believe she managed to get past the security personnel with a baby under her jacket!" Hutton expressed, shaking her head in disbelief. "It's a miracle the baby started to cry when it did or else she would have gotten away with it!"

"Well, it spared the hospital a lawsuit and myself a giant headache," Xander Roth agreed before taking a sip of his tepid coffee.

"You're talking about the NICU nurse involved in that black market baby scandal?" House said after swallowing.

Roth nodded. "Yeah. I have the hospital lawyers on my back about lax security. I let Hurley go today. When I hired him to head security he promised me things he simply wasn't delivering. I lost another department head today, too."

"Who now?" Anderson asked as he cut his chicken breast. "First there was Yang from psych, then you had to fire Hurley…you might as well have a career fair down here in the cafeteria."

"It's Drover from Oncology," Roth announced, thumbing the rim of his coffee cup absently. "He's up for early retirement benefits and he's decided to take them. Says he's burned out."

"Not unusual for a department where as a doctor you're considered a genius if you bat anything over 0.300," House commented, applying the sports metaphor. "I had a good friend who was chief of oncology at PPTH. Took every death to heart—made him one of the best oncologists in the country, but had its toll on him."

"You're talking about James Wilson?" Roth spoke up. "Funny you should mention him. His CV is at the top of the pile of contenders for Drover's replacement since no one internally has the qualifications to fill the spot."

House frowned n confusion. That simply couldn't be. Wilson had told him his plans were to complete the program in Houston then stay in a sober living facility for a year before returning to medicine. Hutton, too, looked surprised by the news.

"That's…unexpected," House told his boss but then quickly added. "He had told me he was thinking of doing something else. I guess he changed his mind."

"What's your opinion of him?" Roth asked House. "I know that he had a bout of trouble with drinking but he's sober and on the mend. You worked with him when he headed oncology in Princeton."

House glanced at Hutton, who looked worried but thankfully was holding her tongue. She had never made it secret what she thought about Wilson, but House had always considered her too harsh about him. Wilson was no saint and had indeed hurt House a great deal in the past, but House was no angel and had inflicted his share of injury on Wilson.

"He took a nothing department in a small teaching hospital and put it on the map," House answered honestly. "Wilson is, like I've always said, one of the finest oncologists in the country and a diligent, responsible, efficient administrator. You wouldn't be going wrong by hiring him for the position."

House caught the knowing glance that passed between Hutton and the chief administrator before Roth asked, "I know from everything that happened with Jenny and Justin that you have a history with Dr. Wilson that wasn't always a happy one. Would you be opposed on personal grounds, to my hiring him?"

"No," House answered, ignoring the way Hutton was staring at him as if she could see right through him. "I would have no problem, professional or personal, with you hiring Wilson. It would be a wise decision on your behalf and the hospital's."

Xander Roth nodded in acknowledgement, drank the last of his coffee and then stood up with his tray. "Thank you for your opinion, Dr. House. I should be getting back to work. Good talking with you all." He walked away, dumping his garbage off the tray before leaving the cafeteria.

"Didn't you tell me Wilson was going to do Sober Living before moving forward with his career?" Hutton asked House.

"Yes," House replied. He wasn't certain whether this was good news or bad news. Something had obviously occurred to change Wilson's mind about taking a slower track to returning to his career and 'real life'. House hadn't spoken with him since before Clee's funeral, mostly because he'd gotten very busy at work; he wasn't certain whether or not he should contact Wilson to find out what had changed. He didn't want him to feel pressured in any way to present a defense when really it was none of House's business anymore. Still, he couldn't help but wonder if something had gone terribly wrong with Wilson and his recovery. He was tempted to call him to find out.

"Do you think it's wise to be promoting him to Xander?" Hutton asked next. This question bothered House. She definitely didn't like Wilson at all, and House knew this was, in part, due to some of the things he had told her during therapy. Regardless, he didn't need her or anyone else to tell him whom he could recommend, talk to, or be friends with.

"He's a damned good doctor and administrator," House told her sharply, rising from the table without his tray. "St. Luke's would be lucky to have him. Having him work in the same building as me isn't going to corrupt me or cause me to have a meltdown. Give both Wilson and me a little more credit than that, will you?"

House limped quickly away, wanting to place as much distance between him and Hutton so he could cool down and think through the situation for himself. He didn't know what to make of this and he had to admit to himself that he was nervous about working in the same hospital as Wilson again. He'd never stopped loving the younger man but had chosen Justin whom he'd loved dearly as well. Would he be able to establish a friendship again with Wilson without it going anywhere else? Did he even want to try? And what did this mean pertaining to Wilson's recovery? Had he given up, perhaps even relapsed?

Once in the privacy of his office House sat down and stared at his computer monitor, wondering if it would be wise to try to contact Wilson and ask him what the hell was going on.

_No_, House told himself with a shake of his head. _Wilson has his own life to live, and I have mine. Let him live it, whatever happens._

**Tuesday, October 27, 2010; 11:48 A.M.**

"He's not deaf," Dr. Perry argued from her seat at the round table in the main conference room located in Diagnostics. She was looking at Bell when she said it. "He hears. I walked into the room when Sam was facing the other way and he stopped mumbling to himself because he had heard me walk in." She turned to face House, who stood was operating the Smartboard, on which was a list of symptoms being presented by their current patient, a sixteen year old male. "I think he experiences auditory agnosia and aphasia."

"If that's the case," Dr. Preston spoke up, sitting forward in his chair, "if you add it to the other symptoms—"

Before Preston could finish a voice came from the doorway behind House. "Seizures, autistic behavior patterns, and ADHD equals late-onset Landau-Kleffner syndrome."

House spun around suddenly in his seat to face the visitor, his heart leaping to his throat. He force calm upon his countenance, not wanting his team to see him react to seeing James Wilson, looking trim, healthy, handsome and, perhaps most importantly, _sober_, and dressed flawlessly in a charcoal suit and white shirt with a soft green tie. He met House's surprised eyes and smiled ever so slightly.

"Sorry to interrupt," Wilson added, not appearing sorry at all. House bit his lip to keep himself from smiling. "Kirkland said I could walk in."

House nodded, turning back around to face his team. "You heard the man. Perform a BAER1 test and an EEG to confirm, add corticotrophen to the anticonvulsant he's on to treat. Make sure he gets signed up with speech therapy as well. At his age his speech skills should improve rapidly with meds and therapy. Off you go." He waved them away from the table. His team got to their feet and filed out of the office. Bell took the time to greet Wilson, meeting him for the first time in person, before leaving as well. House grabbed his cane and stood up, approaching Wilson, allowing the tiniest of smiles to pull on the corners of his mouth.

"Interview with Roth?" House asked him, already knowing the answer. Roth had told him a couple of days before that Wilson had made the short list and would be called for an interview.

"Just finished," Wilson told him, nodding. "I think it went well. He said he had one more interview this afternoon and would be in contact once he made his decision."

House nodded, unable to get over just how healthy and together Wilson looked in person. "He's been pretty closed-mouthed about it all, but I gave you a glowing recommendation."

"Even after Jenny?" Wilson asked, searching House's face.

"I thought we'd established that there was nothing you could have done to save Jenny?" House replied, rolling his eyes.

"You're right. Thanks," Wilson told him. It was silent between them for a few moments, then, "Lunch?"

"You buying?" House asked, already leading the way out of the conference room.

Wilson chuckled, shaking a finger at him. "No, you are. You owe me at least a couple thousand lunches, I think."

"You kept track?" House chuckled as they fell into a matched pace down the corridor, so similar to the way they used to back at PPTH that it send a shiver of déjà vu down House's spine.

"Just an estimate," Wilson replied. He watched the way House walked with his cane. "You're not using your cane as much as you used to."

"I'm on a closely monitored pain management regimen," House told him. "It keeps the pain around a one or two unless I have breakthrough, but then I have supplementary meds for those. I'm also taking physio when I remember my appointments—that's one reason I kept Kirkland around. No opiates, currently, though they're not off the table should it come to the point that I need them eventually."

"Still sober," Wilson told House, answering the unspoken question in the diagnostician's eyes. "I'm living in a sober house here in Philadelphia, currently. I was kicked out of the program at Silver Springs, but not for relapsing."

"What happened?"

"Remember Alex, my therapist and chaperone?" Wilson asked him. When House nodded in the affirmative the oncologist continued, "He decided he wanted to feel me up during a tornado warning. The administration took his word over mine and I was forced to leave the program." He held up a hand to stay House's next question, anticipating it as well. "I'm seeing a therapist twice a week at the university hospital outpatient psych clinic and attending AA. Believe it or not, I'm doing well. My therapist thinks getting back to work and feeling like I'm productive will be good for me. I applied to five hospitals along the eastern seaboard, so I may still be moving away again if I'm not hired in this region. I hope that doesn't happen because I've been spending more time with Danny here and I'll miss that."

"You'll be hired here," House told him confidently. "Roth hasn't been interviewing anyone but you this week. He tells prospects what they needs to keep them on edge while he makes his decision, I think. I know this because my faithful PA gets all the inside info and gossip from the other PAs in the hospital, including Roth's. How is Danny?"

"He's still in the group home, still working," Wilson answered as they came to a stop at the elevators and House pressed the down call button. "He has his good and bad days—his employer at the security company is really understanding and cooperative. He's asked about you, how you're doing, if you've had any cool cases lately."

House raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised to hear that. "I had a kid with three separate and unassociated illnesses at the same time. What's great with having two teams is I can pass the cases I don't want to Chase and his group and focus on the ones that interest me. But Chase finds a few goodies himself, and he's proving that I'm a good teacher."

"As if that was ever in doubt," Wilson said as they boarded the elevator car that arrived along with a young woman pushing a child stroller. Staring up at House was a three-year-old girl with golden pigtails and a crooked smile.

House reached into his sport jacket and pulled a red Lolly-pop from the inner pocket.

"Is it okay?" he asked the mother as Wilson watched, fascinated. "I'm Dr. House—if she gets sick you know where to begin the witch hunt."

The young woman smirked at that and nodded. House removed the plastic wrapper then handed it to the child.

"Thank you," she said without being prompted and then stuck the entire thing in her mouth.

"Just be good and brush your teeth when you get home," House told her, pretending to be stern. The child saw through him and began to giggle around her treat. The elevator arrived at their destination and House led Wilson off the car and in the direction of the cafeteria. Wilson was smiling at him slightly.

"What?" House demanded. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I was just surprised, is all," Wilson replied. "You were genuinely nice to that little girl."

"Kept her quiet, didn't it?" House replied, trying to brush it off as nothing.

"And that's why you did it. There was no kindness involved whatsoever," Wilson concluded for him, shaking his head. "No, we both know that's not it but if you want to pretend it is then I'll let you. It's a nice surprise. You've genuinely changed, House. I like it."

House threw him a look and an eye roll before looking away quickly before Wilson could see the color touch his long, angular face or the smile that he was struggling to conceal. They reached the cafeteria.

_I like it, too,_ House thought as he picked up a tray and entered the line. Having Wilson back in his circle might just be a good thing, after all. That thought caused him a prick of his conscience, and he immediately thought of Justin. _I'm not jumping straight into bed with Wilson,_ he told himself, _I'm just looking forward to having him as my friend again. In time, if something more happens, so be it._ He reasoned that he hadn't deserted Justin; Justin had deserted him and left him to mourn. Then again, Wilson might not get the job and this guilt he was feeling was for nothing. _No, he'll get the job—hell, Roth's probably dialing HR right now to get the papers together._ That thought made him smile, and damn it, he wasn't going to feel guilty for it!


	68. Chapter 68 Part 3 Ch 34

**Title:** **Resurrection**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer**: House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N**: This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler** **Alert**: This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

Word Count:

**Rating**: **M (NC-17) **for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Part Three: The Rising**

**Chapter Thirty-Four: Monday, November 16, 2010; 8:56 A.M.**

Wilson's fingers traced the engraved nameplate on his new office door at St. Luke's Presbyterian Hospital and smiled softly. The hiring process had been a fast one; Xander Roth wasted no time getting staff positions filled and departments back into a routine and Wilson appreciated that. Over the past week he'd unofficially started work, his days basically filled with learning St. Luke's layout, regulations, and procedures, being introduced to the Board, meeting the doctors and nursing staff in his department and being brought up to date on anything and everything he would need to know by the doctor he was replacing. Already he had ideas of what he would continue to promote in the department and what he would change to make everything run more efficiently but for the most part Wilson was impressed with how well managed St. Luke's oncology department was, and the entire hospital in general, as well. Today was his first official day as Chief of Oncology, and so far it was beginning quietly, with a smile and a handful of memos from his temporary assistant (he would have to interview prospects to permanently fill the job but there was no rush on that). There was no fanfare and for that Wilson was very grateful.

He unlocked the door and opened it, stepping into the darkened office (all of the window blinds in the room were drawn, how strange) and feeling for the light switch. It took him a second to find it. The fluorescent lights flickered on; sitting on the sofa across the room, waiting for him in the dark, was House. He was holding two cigars and a lighter and smiled when Wilson started at the sight of him.

"Oh, Jesus!" Wilson gasped, nearly dropping his memos when he jumped. "House!"

"Wilson!" House echoed cheekily, rising to his feet with the help of his cane. He walked up to the younger man and held out a cigar. "To celebrate your first day."

Wilson took it from him and looked at it. It was a good Cuban. "You can't smoke in here," he reminded him.

"Sure I can," House replied, biting the end off his stogie and finding a metal wastebasket and then lighting it. He took a long draw once the cigar was lit and blew out smoke rings. "I'm just not supposed to."

"Some things never change," Wilson said, smiling and shutting the office door. House approached him to light his cigar. Wilson bit the end off his and put the cigar into his mouth.

"Nope," House agreed with him as he lit Wilson's cigar. Wilson took a couple of puffs, coughed once, and then went around his desk and sat down in his chair. He looked around the office, noting silently which items would stay, which ones would go, and what all he would move into the spacious office to make it more his. He knocked ash off the cigar into the wastebasket.

"I really shouldn't be enjoying this as much as I am," Wilson told House, gesturing with the stogie and smirking. "Damn thing is toxic."

"Ah, but what a way to be poisoned," House replied, smiling. "I thought about decorating and gathering people to surprise you when you walked in, but that would have been too much work so I didn't."

"I'm actually glad you didn't," Wilson told him. "Are you always at the hospital this early?"

"It's almost nine," House pointed out.

"Exactly," Wilson replied. "You almost never graced the hospital with you presence before nine-thirty when we were at Plainsboro."

"Well, now that I'm not in as much pain I can actually sleep at night and as a result I wake up early whether I want to or not," House told him, taking a seat in one of the visitor chairs next to the desk. "That, and Justin used to wake early and would make certain I was up as well. I guess I formed a rotten habit from that."

House had glanced away when he'd mentioned Justin, appearing a little uncomfortable, but Wilson was okay with it. House had been in love with Justin just as Wilson had been in love with Amber before she died. There would always be memories House would have of the man and Wilson knew that, respected it. After all, he and House were interacting on a platonic level so he really had no right to be offended, anyway, even if he did feel that way, which he didn't.

"How are you doing with his being gone?" Wilson asked, not afraid to. He knew House would be expecting a question like that.

"Fine," House replied, knocking ash into the empty wastebasket. "The truth is, I miss him, but I'm still angry at his suicide. The bastard didn't think about what his death would do to me, and to his friends and family."

"You're angry because you cared," Wilson told him. "You know as well as I do that it's a normal stage of grief. After Amber died, you weren't the only one I was angry with. I was furious with Amber for not making you take a cab, for getting on that bus with you, for taking that flu medication…hell, I was angry at her for not telling me right away when you called. It'll pass."

"Probably," House agreed. "How's Sober Living—or, rather, should I ask: Have you found an apartment you like yet?"

Wilson shook his head. "Living in a group setting is not as helpful as I would have hoped and yes, you're right, I am looking for my own place because sharing one bathroom with five other men isn't as fun as it sounds. Have I found an apartment yet? No. I'm really in no hurry—I at least have a roof over my head—so I'll wait until I find one a really like before I put in an offer."

"Just don't end up living in a hotel room forever because someone ends up using your toothbrush and you don't have somewhere private to retreat to," House told him, then puffed on his cigar some more.

Wilson took one final puff of his before butting it out on the bottom of the wastebasket. He was beginning to feel a little nauseous from the nicotine. "I won't. I have a couple of viewing appointments tonight. I was thinking, why don't you come along with me, give me your opinion? We can catch dinner afterward."

"Are you asking me out on a date?" House asked him, smiling knowingly. They had already acknowledged that the situation might be a little weird between them now that they were back in each other's life so they would take things slowly. Neither of them had much doubt that they wouldn't end up together eventually, but they didn't want to rush it and end up regretting it. They both had a lot of healing left to do, and issues between them to iron out.

"Of course not," Wilson replied. "This offer is strictly platonic, so I expect you to behave."

"Wilson, since when do I ever behave?" House asked, butting his cigar out as well and rising to his feet. "Should I meet you somewhere or what?"

"Why don't you meet me at my hotel and we'll take my car from there?" Wilson replied. "It's simpler than both of us driving to each appointment."

"Sounds good," House agreed, heading for the door. "What time?"

"The first appointment is at six-thirty," Wilson answered, "so if you could be at the hotel by six it'll give us plenty of time to get there."

"Six-fifteen it is," House told him, opening the office door. He looked back and nearly smiled. "Welcome back, Wilson."

Wilson returned the smile, feeling more at ease than he had in a long time. He knew House was welcoming him back into his life more than he was to St. Luke's. He was glad to be back.

"You, too, House," he told the diagnostician, who nodded in acknowledgement and then shut the door behind him on his way out.

**Monday, November 16, 2010; 7:10 P.M.**

House followed Wilson, who was following the real estate agent, into the small condo apartment that was up for sale. This was the first of the two places Wilson had made appointments for viewing, and House was glad that there was another one to choose from. This one looked like a sardine can and not quite as big. He could tell by the expression on Wilson's face that he was far from impressed, himself. The agent did a valiant job trying to sell the studio, if you could even use that term for what was little more than a cramped attic with seven-foot ceilings that added to the squished feeling to the place.

It wasn't long before Wilson was thanking her for her time and they were back in Wilson's car and driving to the next apartment, laughing at the ridiculous price the owner of the previous place was asking for it.

The second apartment was much better, a loft similar to the one Wilson had bought in Princeton only a little smaller. This one was a one bedroom with a bath and a half and a small den that could second as a guest room if necessary. The living areas were comfortably sized and large southern-exposure windows allowed in a pleasant amount of light. There was a wood-burning fireplace (a double-plus on House's list of requirements, though the place wasn't going to be his) and a good-sized kitchen that, in the normal loft-style open concept, overlooked the living area well. This place had a small hallway at the entrance rather than a grand foyer, but Wilson didn't mind, not needing anything as large as he had had in Princeton since he was going to be living alone once he was done at the sober living house, where the length of stay was a maximum of six months. House couldn't see Wilson lasting six-months in the tight quarters of a halfway house so buying a place of his own to run to when the other place got to be too much was a good idea in House's way of thinking.

"As you can see," the agent, a thirtyish man with early male-pattern balding happening, told them as they walked around the kitchen island, "the kitchen boasts the most modern, top of the line of stainless steel appliances including the built-in front-loading washer and dryer. The countertops are real granite and the double sink was recently replaced along with the plumbing hardware and tap. There is also a garborator and who doesn't like the sink and dishwasher built into the island rather than the back of the kitchen? There is the built in butcher's block that can be taken out to be washed and sterilized, and under the sink here is a built in water purification system which actually filters the water that flows to every tap throughout the condo. Moving on now to the bedroom…"

"Ah, now we're talking," House spoke up and when he received a curious look from Wilson he quickly added to save face, "You're going to spend a third of your life in there; it had better be to your liking if you're going to buy this place."

A smile obviously wanted to make it's way to Wilson's mouth but he was valiantly fighting it. "Right," he added with a nod. House could feel his cheeks redden but refused at acknowledge it in hopes that Wilson wouldn't notice.

The bedroom was large with more than enough room for a king-sized bed and coordinating furniture. It had an eastern exposure, the window actually being a sliding door that opened onto a modest balcony. The street down below was strictly residential and for local traffic only, so it was quiet. There were plenty of electrical outlets in the room and a cable outlet had been installed in the bedroom ready for a TV. There was a walk-in closet big enough for two people to store their clothing and accessories and on the other side of the closet was the master bathroom fitted with a claw-footed soaker tub, separate shower stall, double-sink vanity, toilet and bidet.

"How convenient, an ass shower!" House said in his 'gay' voice as he looked down at the porcelain object next to the toilet. "It's just like they knew we were coming, Pookie!"

House expected a glare and remonstration of some kind but instead Wilson grinned and winked big enough for the real estate agent to notice. "I knew you would like it. Only the best for my Buttercup!"

House had to choke back a laugh, though he didn't like Wilson calling him 'Buttercup'. That was going a tad far. If House was having difficulty keeping a straight face on his own, the look of obvious discomfort on the agent's face made it next to impossible.

"It'll be so convenient for parties!" House added, noticing Wilson bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. The agent turned a little red, then green.

"Uh, I'll show you the half-bath and the den, now," he told Wilson and House, hurrying first out of the large master bath.

"You're an ass," Wilson whispered to House, chuckling under his breath as they followed the agent.

"And if you buy this place you'll have a shower ready for me," House agreed _sotto voce_, only making Wilson snigger hard.

Sniggering became laughter once they were alone in Wilson's car driving to a pizza and steakhouse the older of the two of them had suggested. Wilson, having actually liked the loft, had placed an offer and time would only tell if he actually got the place. The price was right, though, and in a quiet, family-oriented end of town, too.

"I thought that agent was going to shit his pants when you said the bidet would be great for parties," Wilson laughed, glancing away from the road briefly to look at House.

"Well, then the bidet would have come in handy then, wouldn't it?" House responded, also laughing. It had seemed like a long time since he'd laughed this much in one sitting, and that thought sobered him a little. House almost felt guilty for enjoying Wilson's company and laughing so much so soon after Justin's death. He cleared his throat and looked away from Wilson, staring straight out the front windshield at the road as the car seemed to gobble it up as it rode over it.

Wilson noticed the sudden change in House's demeanor. "It's okay to laugh and have fun, House," he told the diagnostician softly, keeping his eyes on the road as well. "It doesn't mean you miss him any less."

House wasn't surprised that Wilson could still read him so well. Perhaps his own experience with losing Amber also gave him greater insight into what was going on with House.

"Feels like it," House replied, now turning his head to look out his side window to hide any errant emotion his face might display. "This has been fun, but I feel like I'm—"

"Cheating?" Wilson suggested. House nodded. "You're not. But if you would feel better, I can take you home now."

House thought about that a moment before shaking his head and turning it to face Wilson again. "No. No, I'm not going to allow false-guilt to keep me from living. I didn't leave Justin; he left me. I'm not in the wrong to have fun with a friend just because he chose to kill himself in the recent past. Besides, it's been a while since you paid for dinner and I'm not turning that up for a sandwich at home."

"Ah, I see. It's all good so long as there's free food," Wilson commented, a smile pulling at his mouth and gleaming in his eyes. "For all the ways in which you've changed, House, there are some things that have stayed the same."

"From your mouth to Hutton's ears," House replied with a nod. Wilson seemed to tense slightly upon the mention of the psychiatrist's name. "I saw that. You like her about as much as she likes you."

"Untrue," Wilson answered as he brought the car to a stop at a red light. "She dislikes me more. You may be receiving a visit from her sooner rather than later concerning me. She caught me in the cafeteria earlier today and we had a _talk_."

"Let me guess," House said with a sigh. "She wanted to make certain that you had no selfish intentions concerning me, right? She reminded you that our history is checkered with codependency and pain, that I'm still in mourning for Justin and thus am vulnerable, and you should, if you do care about me like you say, keep a respectable distance from me by keeping our relationship strictly professional."

"What, did you bug her bra or something?" Wilson asked, astounded by House's accuracy.

"She's…predictable," House explained. "And like a mother bear when it comes to her friends and family—and patients. Ignore it. She has no say over whom I associate with and in what capacity. It appears I have to remind her of that again. The road to hell is paved with a lot of Hutton's good intentions. Still, she's done a lot for me and I can't help but be grateful to her. Justin was like a brother to her—she probably suspects that you're trying to get into my pants now that he's dead and feels protective of his memory. She also sincerely cares about me and my wellbeing long-term. I'll talk to her, get her to back off and give you some breathing space."

"Well, she was baring her full set of teeth and claws today," Wilson said thoughtfully and then shrugged. "That's fine. I'll just have to prove to her that I'm serious about starting my life over right and that includes doing right by you."

"Now you're making it sound like you're planning on proving to her that you're worthy of me," House responded. "What are you, my suitor?"

The light changed and Wilson resumed driving. "I'm not certain what we are to each other, House, but whatever we end up as, I want to start right here and now as friends."

House smiled. "Me, too. But I have to admit, Wilson…I do still have feelings for you. I never stopped loving you."

Wilson nodded. "I never stopped loving you, either. But Hutton was right about one thing she said to me today: we both need to take this slowly and cautiously. I don't want to screw this up, House. I don't want either one of us to get hurt again."

"Me, neither. But maybe someday—"

"I think," Wilson interrupted him with a nod, "that it's inevitable, and that it always has been."

House could be happy with friendship now knowing that someday they could build to more. He felt guilty thinking about a future with Wilson so soon after Justin's death, but Justin had left him behind, left him alone again and since House had no other choice but to face a future without the surgeon, he didn't plan on spending the rest of his life alone when he could, hopefully, find happiness with Wilson…someday.

"What have you got planned for Thanksgiving?" House asked him, deciding he'd had enough of the heart-to-heart stuff for one evening.

"My parents are flying in and we're going to get together and have thanksgiving dinner with Danny and his housemates," Wilson replied. "Peter won't be there; his family is getting together with his wife's parents this year, but it will be close to the whole family back together again. Because it will be with the rest of Danny's group home as well we should be able to avoid some of the family drama that we might otherwise experience whenever my family gets together. I'm really looking forward to it. What about you?"

"Hutton is throwing a big to-do at her place," House replied. "She claims I volunteered to help cook. I think she must have drugged me or something when that happened. Anyway, there will be her, her kids, Gage Anderson, Hutton's best friend and her husband, Hutton's mother-in-law. Hutton invited my mom and she agreed to come."

"That sounds nice," Wilson commented, nodding. "Like you've become part of a huge family."

"Yeah," House agreed, squirming a little. "I guess I have. But they're going to have to accept a new member, including Hutton, now that you're around. Give her time, Wilson. She'll come around."

"We'll see, House," was all Wilson said to that.

**Thursday, November 20, 2010; 5:45 P.M.**

House stirred the gravy carefully then took a taste with a clean teaspoon; perfect. He offered a taste to Hutton, who was washing dishes as they went along with their cooking for the house full of hungry people.

"Mmm," she hummed, closing her eyes as she savored the gravy in her mouth and smiled. "Are you sure you're not a chef? That tastes wonderful! You can cook thanksgiving dinner for me every year."

"Like hell I will," House responded, pleased by her reaction in spite of himself. "I still don't remember volunteering this year. I believe everything is ready to be served."

"Great," she told him. "I'll let everyone know it's time to assemble in the dining room."

"Before you do, there's something I need to talk to you about," House confessed, growing serious. He'd been procrastinating having this discussion up until now because it hadn't seemed to be the right time, but he knew that if he didn't talk with her now about Wilson, he wouldn't get another chance once everyone was eating and visiting. "It's about Wilson."

Hutton frowned slightly. "Oh, can't that wait until later? I'm starving!"

"No," house insisted. "It can't. I know you're less than pleased that Roth hired him and he's now back as a part of my life. I also know you cornered him the other day and laid down the law, so to speak."

"House," she began, her hands rising to her hips. House wouldn't give her the chance to say more.

"Wilson is a part of my life because _I_ want him to be. He's doing much better than he was before and I believe he is genuinely serious about his sobriety and therapy," House insisted, blocking the doorway just in case the psychiatrist tried to escape. "We both have talked about the feelings we still hold for each other, but we've both acknowledged that now is not the time to pursue anything more than friendship because neither of us is ready for that yet. There will come a time when we are, and I intend to pursue a deeper relationship with Wilson eventually. You have to accept the fact that I have the right to decide whom I have as my friend and whom I choose to date. Wilson is a recovering addict just like both of us. He's going to screw up; he doesn't need your scrutiny or your judgment when he does. What he does need is the same network of friends and support you all have provided me. If you can't accept him and give him an opportunity to prove himself, then you can't accept me any longer, either. Is that clear?"

Hutton stared at him for a moment in silence before sighing and nodding. "Yes…and you're right. I haven't been fair to him since he started working at St. Luke's. I guess it's just so soon after Justin."

"Believe me, I know that," House told her. "I also know that Justin abandoned _me_—all of us—not the other way around, and I have a right to continue on with my life now that he's gone. Wilson only wants to be given the same chance to offered me, and that's all I'm asking you for on his behalf."

Sighing again, Hutton nodded. "Okay. I'm sorry, House. I was trying to protect you and overstepped your boundaries and his. Will you forgive me?"

"No need," House told her. He turned around and bellowed into the larger living area where everyone had assembled. "Grub's ready—come and get it! Mom, you better sit up with me at the turkey end of the table because if you let David and Stephania go first there will be nothing left for you."

"You should talk!" Stephania called back indignantly, causing a chorus of laughing as they all lent a hand in bringing the food out to the set table and sat down to eat.

**~h/w~**

Sated by the good food and sleepy from the tryptophan in the turkey, the men helped with dishes (except for House, who had already contributed his share and now sat in the living room watching football with his leg elevated, waiting for the other men to join him) and putting the food away. After everything was cleaned up and in its place, Stephania and the men joined House to watch football, House's, Hutton's and Gage's mothers sat in the den talking and Linda Bonnar took Hutton aside, telling her she wanted to chat privately.

"Oh no, not you, too," Hutton said with a tired sigh. "House had to have a 'chat' with me earlier, too. What did I do to offend you?"

"Nothing," Bonnar told her, smiling. Her speech was slurred, and she had moved from a cane to a walker. Her sight was going on her as well. "I just want to talk with my best friend, okay?"

"Okay," Hutton agreed, finding it hard to see the other woman deteriorating rapidly before her. She led Bonnar to her office in the back of the house, where they sat on the sofa with coffees Hutton brought along with them. Bonnar had to have hers in a special cup designed for her by an occupational therapist since her hands were crippling quickly, making even assumedly simple acts like drinking a chore.

"Liv," Bonnar said once they were settled in, "Let's be honest. We both know…I don't have long."

Hutton nodded but didn't say anything; she didn't trust herself not to start sobbing if she did. It was painfully obvious that the rate of the progression of Bonnar's MS had doubled over the past month.

"I need to know…that you'll be okay when…when it's over," Bonnar told her, laying a shaking hand on Hutton's. "Gary and I…are staying put now. No more travel. We want to be…near friends."

"I…," Hutton began and then stopped, took a deep breath, and blinked back tears before trying again. "I don't know how to answer you. I don't…it's hard, Linda. I don't want to lose you. I don't want to let you go."

Linda nodded. "But Love, you don't have a choice. Neither…of us…does. Gary's…Gary's gonna need you to help…he seems strong but…but he's an eight-year-old in some ways…"

"Aren't we all?" Hutton asked, sniffing and wiping away a tear before it was able to leave her eye. "Of course I'll be here for him. I…I just don't want to talk about this, Linda."

"That's why we have to," her best friend told her. "You look out for…everyone but you. I need to know there's someone watching out for you when I die. You're not invincible, Liv. Do you still see Nolan regularly?"

"Linda—"

"I'll take that as…a no. Start now. I mean it," Bonnar told her firmly. "You need to, Liv. You need someone to help you now. I need to know…you're gonna be okay so…so I can rest in peace. I love you."

A tear trickled down Hutton's face. She nodded, setting her coffee cup down onto the table and reaching for Bonnar, pulling her into a bear hug.

"Okay," Hutton whispered. "Okay, Linda. I promise I'll take care of me, too."

**Monday, November 23, 2010; 10:31 A.M.**

House looked up from his laptop when Kirkland buzzed him on the intercom to tell him that Wilson was there.

"I told you before," House told his PA, "if it's Wilson you can send him in right away."

When Wilson appeared in the doorway House asked, "So how did Thanksgiving go?"

"Really well, much better than I'd hoped," Wilson told him, smiling and looking calm, at ease. I got your e-mail about the poker game Friday night. You didn't say what time to be at your place."

"Seven-thirty or so," House told him. "Anderson rarely shows before eight, so there's no rush. It's usually him, his brother, Roth, Chase, Hazelton from Nuclear medicine, and myself. Gary Bonnar will be joining us now that he and his wife aren't leaving Philly, and you. The only beer allowed is of the root variety and everyone brings some kind of snack food and money they are prepared to lose to my genius poker-playing skills."

"You mean fluky luck," Wilson replied smiling. "Sounds like fun. This is every Friday night at your place?"

"Yup," House replied. Wilson shook his head and smiled.

"House the social butterfly," he said with a hint of wonder in his voice. "So, you free for lunch?"

"Yup," House replied.

"Good," Wilson said, turning to leave then looking back as an afterthought. "How was your thanksgiving, by the way?"

"It was like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting," House replied, rolling his eyes. "In other words, tolerable."

"You enjoyed it," Wilson countered knowingly, his brown eyes reading the nuances in House's face as he spoke about it. "Good. I'll see you later, House, and you can tell me just how 'awful' it was then."

"Whatever. Later, Wilson."

**Friday, November 27, 2010; 8:58 P.M.**

It was heads up Texas Hold'em. Everyone else at the table had folded but House and Wilson. They sat on opposite sides of the card table only adding to the electrical charge in the atmosphere of the room. Wilson was short-stacked and hungry for the pot. He met House's scrutinizing glare with a confidant smirk and for the life of him House couldn't tell whether or not he was bluffing.

Wilson had pushed all of his chips to the center of the table. House pondered. Finally, he matched the all-in bid.

"I call," he told the oncologist. Two hundred and fifty-odd bucks were riding on him being right. The smile on Wilson's face and his chocolate brown eyes didn't waver or flinch in the slightest. First Wilson, then House showed their pocket cards. Wilson had a pair of aces in clubs and hearts; House had an ace-king suited in spades. On the flop was a queen of hearts, a five of clubs and a jack of diamonds.

Gary whistled through his teeth. "You better hope an ace turns up and a ten doesn't, friend," he said to Wilson, shaking his head.

"For the record, I'm rooting for James," Anderson, playing dealer this round, told House.

"That's only because I busted you," House retorted. "Watch how I decimate Wilson with my wicked poker skills. Lay the cards already."

Wilson stood up and leaned forward with his palms against the table top, waiting, still not appearing worried.

Anderson laid the next card down; on the Turn was a nine of clubs. The room was quiet as the men present waited for the River card. Anderson peeled it off the deck, hesitated a moment which earned him an eye roll from House, then laid it down. It was a three of diamonds.

"Yes!" Wilson said in victory, pumping his arm; a pair of aces beat House's almost-but-not-quite straight. He grinned broadly at House as he reached for the pot and pulled the chips over to his side of the table.

"Damn!" House cursed, shaking his head and thumping his cane against the floor in frustration. "I was certain you were bluffing!"

"You just can't admit that I'm as good at poker as you are," Wilson crowed as he stacked his newly won chips. Since both Anderson and now House were busted, they watched the remaining hands between Wilson, and the remaining men, with Wilson finally losing it all to Hazelton on the Turn in the last hand.

Wilson hung behind when the rest left House's place and helped House clean up the snacks and empty soda cans while House put away the poker chips.

"When did you get so good at Texas Hold'em?" House demanded, still sore about being knocked out so early in the evening.

"Since there wasn't much else for the patients at Silver Springs to do in the evenings but watch TV or play cards," Wilson replied. "I'm a master at Canasta, too. You know that second apartment we looked at the other night?"

"Yeah?"

"They took my offer," Wilson answered, smiling in satisfaction. "I take possession December 15, just in time for Hanukkah and Christmas. It can't come too soon. There's a deodorant thief at the sober living home. I had to buy my fourth stick this week before I came over here. Group living just isn't for me."

"That's one thing we can agree on," House replied, closing the case on his poker set and carrying it over to the closet where he stored it. Wilson carried the soda cans to the kitchen and put them into the recycling box under the sink. "Just look for the best smelling member of the household and you've got your man."

"That's not a bad idea," Wilson told him as he looked for and found a cloth to wipe the card table before folding it down for House. "There was one patient at Silver Springs that walked in her sleep. She would go to other patients' rooms and rummage through their dresser drawers in the middle of the night. She wouldn't take anything or do any real damage but it was annoying to be awakened by her all the same. It reminded me of the time I stayed with you right after Julie and I split, remember? I'd be trying to sleep on that beat-up old couch of yours and you'd be limping around at three A.M. because your leg was keeping you awake."

"Hey, that's nothing to being awakened at six in the morning because of a blow-dryer blaring in the next room," House returned, smirking.

"Did Justin do anything particularly annoying that you wouldn't let him forget about too?" Wilson asked good-naturedly. House froze for a moment, startled by the question. It wasn't that he was opposed to talking with Wilson about Justin, he just wasn't used to it, and it did make him feel a little uncomfortable.

"House, I'm sorry," Wilson apologized quickly once he saw House's reaction to the question. "If you don't want to talk about him—"

"No, it's not that!" House interrupted, shaking his head and frowning. He stopped talking for a moment to get his bearings and take a deep breath. "I just wasn't expecting a question about him from you."

"Look, forget I asked, okay?" Wilson offered. "I shouldn't have."

"Wilson," House replied, sighing and looking him in the eye, "if we're to be friends now and possibly more someday…we need to be able to ask questions and not be afraid." He moved over to his couch and sat down. Wilson joined him, sitting at the other end, far enough from House that another person could sit comfortably between them. House found it kind of weird to see Wilson sit so far away when for years, before they had even confessed their feelings for each other, they had sat much closer out of habit. He didn't say anything about that, though.

"Justin never woke me with any unusual or inconsiderate behavior but he did have this habit of gargling as loudly as he possibly could. It was like fingernails being dragged down a chalkboard for me, and you could hear it from the opposite end of the house with the bathroom door closed." He smiled at the arguments they'd had over it, and the ways in which Justin would make it up to him.

"Amber would click her fingernails incessantly," Wilson told House. "She would just sit there and use one hand of nails to click against the others. She drove me to distraction with it, and no matter how many times I asked her to stop she would always revert back to it if she were nervous or deep in thought. Gah!" He shook his head at the memory, appearing repulsed by it.

"Makes serenading you in the wee hours of the morning on my guitar look harmless by comparison, huh?" House asked.

Wilson remembered the incident House was referring to. It wasn't all that long ago and yet it seemed like years had passed since. "Singing 'Faith' in the middle of the night falls into a category of aggravation all its own."

"Still not worse than the blow-dryer," House insisted. They stared at each other and then began to laugh; it was more a form of catharsis, a release of nervous tension between them, than it was due to humor. When they both were done laughing, they sat silently in each other's company for a few minutes, perfectly at ease with it.

"Well, I guess I should hit the road, too," Wilson said with a sigh, slowly rising from the couch. "Don't get up, I know my way out."

House rose to his feet anyway, and limped behind Wilson to the door, watching as Wilson put on his light jacket. House opened the door for him.

"Thanks for inviting me to poker, House," Wilson told him. "I had a good time. You seem to have some decent friends."

Before House could respond to that, Wilson leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss on House's cheek, then pulled away and even too a step backwards out the door, waiting for House's reaction.

"I know we're taking it slow,' Wilson told him almost shyly, "but you know me, I don't like things being too slow. Goodnight, House." He hurried out the door completely and to his car on the driveway. House watched from the door as Wilson unlocked his car door and opened it.

"Wilson," House called to him. The younger man stopped with one foot already in the car and looked up.

"Yes, House?"

"I don't like things moving at a sloth's pace, either," House told him before retreating into his house and closing the door. Wilson stared after him for a moment before smiling, climbing into his car, and driving away.

**Tuesday, December 22, 2010; 4:21 P.M.**

"Why do you think you had trouble being faithful to your wives?" Dr. Hislop asked him, leaning back in his seat to listen to Wilson's response.

Wilson shifted in his armchair opposite his therapist's. "I used to blame them," he started carefully, "but now I realize that I'm responsible for my own behavior. Sure, we both would contribute to the problems in the marriage but no matter how much they may have tried to make decisions for me or bore me, I still chose to cheat. It was my fault, not theirs. With my third wife, Julie, she was the one who had an affair, but I withdrew from her emotionally, at first, and then physically. It wouldn't have been long before I slept around behind her back. I don't know why I cheated except that I was…bored. Hell, I sound like a real creep."

"We don't make judgmental statements like that here, James," Hislop reminded him. "This is not a place to kick yourself but rather a place where we can come to understand why you did what you did, and how you can overcome self-defeating behaviors. You say you were bored with them?"

Wilson nodded. "At first it was exciting. Everything was new—the sex, the cohabitation, and I always reached a point where it just seemed like we should get married if we were living together anyway. I always moved quickly, afraid of overthinking things. I figured if I wanted the storybook picture of a life I had in my head since I started med school, I had to. I think that was probably my biggest mistake. I didn't take time to get to know any of my wives as well as I should have. I married them right away and got to know them later. By that time I'd become disenchanted…okay, bored. I wanted the excitement of that newness again, you know? Like it was when we first started dating." Wilson smiled self-deprecatingly. "I have to admit, the thrill of getting away with it while at any moment I could get caught was exciting and so seductive, so different from the way things were between my wives and me."

"I'm curious," Hislop told him, "what was it about these women that first attracted you to them?"

Pondering that question for a moment or two, Wilson then smirked grimly. "If you asked House that, he'd tell you that it was the shine of their neediness. His theory is that I felt that I had to be their savior and I always chose the needy damsel in distress to rescue, but when I had done my job and they no longer needed rescuing, I grew bored and felt useless, so I had to seek out someone new to help, to save."

"What do you think about his theory?"

Wilson shrugged. He'd actually thought a lot about this while at Silver Springs and though he'd come to a conclusion he'd never spoken it aloud until now. "House has always been eerily accurate in his assessments of me—too accurate. Sometimes I think he knows me better than I know myself."

"That's not true, you know," Hislop told him, smiling mildly. "You know yourself, but you've spent much of your life, I think, trying to be ignorant of certain aspects of yourself that didn't fit your ideal of who Dr. James Wilson should be."

As much as it made him uncomfortable to do so, Wilson had to admit that the psychiatrist was right. How many years had he gone in love with House but in denial of the fact because to admit to it he also would have had to admit he wasn't the heterosexual respectable Jewish doctor and son that he'd told himself he not just wanted to be but _had_ to be. It had become even more important that he be the man that would make his family proud after what had happened with Danny…

"Shit…," Wilson said aloud, sitting up in his seat as a revelation came to him. "I've been attracted to needy people because I felt it was my responsibility to help them…to make up for not being able to save Danny from himself. That's what I 'loved' about my wives, hell, even about House, for so many years! When they didn't need me to save them anymore, I grew disinterested and compulsively started looking for someone new to save, to assuage my guilt over Danny…but, House doesn't need me to rescue him anymore, Dr. Hislop, yet I'm more in love with him now that I ever have been before in my life. How…how can that be?"

Hislop's smile broadened when he replied, "Maybe it's because you're getting over that guilt and healing, James. Also, there was a big part of your life you were trying to repress wasn't there?"

"Yeah," Wilson admitted with a nod and grimace. "My bisexuality. That's a huge topic I've thus far avoided delving too deeply into. We talked about it a little at Silver Springs, but always as an aside to some other issue we were focusing on."

"Do you want to address it here? I think it would be very helpful for you if we do since your sexuality is an important, integral part of who you are and anything we learn may also help us gain new insight into other areas."

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Wilson hesitated a moment then slowly nodded his head. As much as he wanted to skip it, he knew Hislop was right; his bisexuality had been a large, rattling skeleton hidden away in the closet of his life his entire life. He was ready to face it, talk about it. If he didn't, then he and House had no chance of making any kind of relationship work. More than anything, Wilson wanted to be with his best friend, truly the love of his life and the most amazing person he'd ever met.

"Do we have time to start today?" he asked his therapist after taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly.

"I think so," Hislop answered, tearing out a fresh piece of paper from his notebook.

"Good."

…

**Friday, December 25, 2010; 4:15 P.M.**

House pulled up in front of Wilson's apartment building to find the oncologist waiting for him in the doorway. In one hand he carried a long, narrow gift bag and under an arm was a gift-wrapped parcel. He walked carefully over the icy sidewalk to House's car. He placed his parcels into the back seat before hopping into the front passenger seat.

"Merry Christmas, House," he told the diagnostician with a large grin on his face before leaning toward House and placing a tender kiss on his cheek.

"Bah humbug," House replied, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth. "I think you can do better than that." And with that House reached over, took Wilson behind the neck and pulled him into a kiss that was just as tender as it was passionate. When they parted to breathe House told him. "Ready for Norman Rockwell?"

"Never more," Wilson told him, sighing contentedly for the first time in a long time. The car pulled away from the curb, taking them out to the acreage for Christmas dinner with Hutton and the gang. It looked like it was going to be a very good one indeed, especially since it had been Hutton herself who had invited Wilson to join her family and friends. Since House had had his conversation with her, her attitude toward Wilson had begun to thaw considerably.

"I thought Hutton told you that gifts were unnecessary," House commented, his eyes darting in the direction of the back seat briefly before returning to the road.

Wilson sighed. "I thought it couldn't hurt. I really want to be accepted by your friends."

"I accept you," House told him. "That's all that matters. They will come around or they won't—it doesn't change my opinion of you. That said, you already have Anderson's approval, you met Hutton's daughter a couple of weeks ago and she likes you, you have nothing to worry about."

Wilson nodded then gave House a small smile. "The other package is for you—before you say it, I _know_ that you don't believe in gift giving or holidays in general and that you haven't bought me a gift and I don't care. Giving gifts makes _me_ feel good so it's a completely _selfish_ act and I'm certain you can appreciate _that_."

That earned him a smirk and half-chuckle from the older man. "I don't need anything, Jimmy," he told Wilson seriously. "I have everything I need right here in this car right now."

Wilson smiled in response, flushing in a way that House found particularly attractive and always had. When he thought about it, he realized that House was right.

"Me, too."

_**~fin~**_


	69. Chapter 69 Epilogue

**Title:** **Resurrection**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer**: House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N**: This story runs AU, Genres: drama, angst, romance, sick!House and sick!Wilson. It involves House/Wilson pre-slash and slash with also elements of H/OMC, W/S, W/OMC as well as H/OFC friendship and other original characters developed by the author.

**Spoiler** **Alert**: This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season Six, Episode 22 "Help Me".

Word Count:

**Rating**: **M (NC-17) **for Adult subject matter, coarse language, violence and explicit sexuality. Involves concepts like suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, alcoholism and drug use. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

**Epilogue**

April the following year brought the death of Linda Bonnar, and May brought the engagement announcement of Hutton and Anderson, which had been no surprise to anyone. May also brought the one-year anniversary of the beginning of House's life anew. As time passed, the grief House felt for Justin Clee waned, but never really disappeared and Wilson was okay with that.

In June, House moved in with Wilson in the apartment that Wilson had leased for himself, and they both began to look for a home that belonged to both of them. Summer brought the annual BBQ and talent show. Wilson had surprised House but playing the acoustic guitar and singing an old folk song; apparently it was a skill he'd always had but had shelved for a long time, longer than House had ever known him.

Numerous patients were saved by House's department, most by him personally though Chase and his team proved they were no slouches. Word came that PPTH had been bought by a giant medical conglomerate which was turning it into a strictly corporate, for profit hospital, ending it's teaching function for good. Foreman found a job in Chicago as the department head of Neurology at Clark County. He and Chase had made amends and were once again friends.

Life was busy and fulfilling. House and Wilson both remained in counseling individually as well as a couple (which they didn't advertise widely, mostly due to House's discomfort with too many people knowing). The Oncology department at St. Luke's prospered under Wilson's leadership and both House and Wilson maintained their sobriety. In late September Lucas Douglas was shot and wounded by police in the attempt to escape arrest for the murder of Dr. Remy Hadley. He would survive and following his recuperation from his injuries would be kept in custody without bail to await trial.

October brought a fall wedding for Hutton and Anderson and a honeymoon in Tahiti. Stephania studied hard at her senior level subjects, wanting to be well prepared for her SATs come the following spring. For the hospital Halloween fundraiser gala House and Wilson came dressed as Tweedledee and Tweedledum, and they argued lightly all evening over which was one of them was which.

House spent Hannukah with Wilson and Wilson's family which included both of his brothers this time, and Christmas was spent, in part, with the Hutton/Anderson clan and in part just the two of them alone in the house they had bought together, both names on the deed.

On New Year's Day, 2012, House found himself staring at himself in a full-length mirror, trying to tie the bow tie that matched the monkey suit Wilson had insisted that he wear.

"Here, let me help," Hutton (she'd kept her own name after the marriage) told him, coming to stand in front of him and taking the two ends of the bow tie in her hands. "You're hands are shaking so much it's no wonder you can't tie this thing."

"They are _not_ shaking," House objected, glaring down at her but allowing her to tie it for him anyway. Hutton herself was dressed in an elegant black evening gown and heels. "I am _not_ nervous."

"Whatever you say," Hutton replied, humoring him. She gave one final tug on the tie then stepped back to appraise her work; the tie was perfect. "But if you were nervous, it would be completely understandable. I was nervous both times."

"That's because you're a girl," House responded stubbornly. He was_ nervous_, but he wasn't about to admit to it."

"Oh, right, gee, I forgot," Hutton said drily. "It's time. Flee now or never."

House shook his head. He wasn't about to run away; from the moment he had agreed to this he knew this would be his first and last time.

"I'm ready," he told her with certainty. She met his gaze and nodded.

"You are, aren't you? Good, 'cause it's time to get this show on the road." She led the way to the door leading into the hotel banquet hall and opened it a crack to peer into the hall. She nodded once to someone within and then opened the door all the way and marched in.

Tables decorated for a celebration had been set up around the ballroom, but a small section had been roped off and chairs set up. On either side of the rows of chairs was an aisle. As Hutton emerged from one set of doors, Chase emerged from another on the other side of the seating area, where the guests were now standing for the processional. Hutton and Chase reached the front and stood on either side of a small podium where a Justice of the Peace waited to perform his duty. House took a deep breath, silently cursed Wilson for insisting that they couldn't just elope, and stepped into the ballroom through his doors as Wilson did the same on his side. They walked converging lines past family and friends until both men met up in front of the podium. House glanced sideways at Wilson in time to catch his partner doing the same thing and then blushing at being caught. Wilson looked absolutely incredible, so debonair, in his perfectly fitting tuxedo; soft brown eyes gazed into House's blues and House allowed himself to give Wilson a private little smile. Wilson's perfect lips smiled back.

"Family and friends," the Justice began once the music (which most certainly hadn't been the wedding march) faded away, "we are gathered here to share in the joining of Dr. James Wilson and Dr. Gregory House in matrimony…."


End file.
